


My Brother's Keeper

by shutterbug_12 (shutterbug)



Category: House MD
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-30
Updated: 2008-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug_12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An on-the-job incident forces House to experience his life beyond the visible spectrum; Cuddy and Wilson struggle to guide him through a darkness that neither of them can see and preserve the world that House remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many innumerable thanks to my beta readers: Starlingthefool, Phinnia, Amy_119, and Bluebonnets. I am also extremely grateful for the encouragement and cheerleading I've received from many others throughout this whole process.
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/14845.html)  
> by [](http://virvavirva.livejournal.com/profile)[**virvavirva**](http://virvavirva.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/14535.html)  
>  by [](http://mem_vermelha.livejournal.com/profile)[**mem_vermelha**](http://mem_vermelha.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/14218.html)  
>  by [](http://wihluta.livejournal.com/profile)[**wihluta**](http://wihluta.livejournal.com/)

The clock in the clinic read 4:56. Cuddy paced circles around the nurse's station, her arms folded across her chest. As she forced air through her nostrils, she fixed a glare on the closed vertical blinds of exam room two. She rolled her shoulders, preparing for an ambush like an angry lioness.

This afternoon, House had offended a small legion of patients in record time. Outraged parents had demanded to meet with another doctor. Sputtering, red-faced husbands and wives had insisted on personal apologies for accusations of infidelity. Two women had threatened the hospital with sexual harassment suits after House had casually remarked on their attire and likened them to hookers. Cuddy, of course, had been stuck with the damage control.

Narrowing her eyes and exhaling forcefully, Cuddy strode to the exam room window and tried to distinguish House's silhouette. She tracked his shadow as it moved across the blinds; it halted as House's voice boomed from under the door.

"You can huff, and you can puff, but you won't blow--"

She heard a snicker and rolled her eyes.

"--this door down, so go fume in your office."

"Open the door, House," she hissed. "Stop being childish."

He answered with an ear-piercing falsetto. "Not by the hair of my chiny-chin-chin."

If the afternoon hadn't killed her good mood, she may have cracked a smile. "If you're still cowering in there by five o'clock, I'm calling a janitor for the key."

The blinds suddenly parted and House scowled at her from behind the glass. Cuddy arched an eyebrow at him, projecting her confidence, but faltered a moment later when his mouth curved into a familiar grin, a dimple in his right cheek. House pointed over her shoulder, and she followed the path of his finger to the clock on the wall. 5:02.

Working her jaw in frustration, she faced the window, expecting to meet House's insufferably smug expression, but found the blinds swaying and spied House several feet away, speeding towards the lobby, his face hidden behind a brochure for genital herpes. She called his name as she scurried to catch him. He stayed silent, apparently feigning deafness, and continued walking, the brochure still blocking his face. She followed him out of the building and managed to hook her hand around his bent elbow, forcing him to a stop.

" _What_?" He wheeled around sharply, the soles of his shoes grinding against the sidewalk.

His voice seemed to echo off the walls of the building. Cuddy felt the stares of passers-by, who traced wide paths around the two of them. Perched on a nearby stepladder, a short, middle-aged Hispanic man glowered at the back of House's head. The man, wearing a khaki janitorial uniform, rolled his eyes and absently stroked a dripping squeegee across the window.

Cuddy's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she resisted the urge to retreat into the hospital and release House to a weekend of hard liquor and Pay-Per-View programming. But when she caught sight of her own reflection in House's eyes, she straightened her back and raised her chin in an effort to muster some authority, tightening her grip on House's arm.

"You will apologize to your clinic patients," she snarled. "Monday morning. I'll pull your phone records to make sure you do."

"Sorry, I have better things to do than waste half of the morning apologizing to a bunch of morons."

He tried to shake her hand from his arm, but Cuddy tugged sharply, and he jerked forward, his eyes blazing at her. "Maybe if you spent _five minutes_ actually treating your patients, you wouldn't have to waste your time with apologies."

House hooked his cane around his forearm. "Maybe if these idiots spent _five seconds_ putting on a condom--"

Halting his own words with a grunt, House twisted and wrenched his arm free. He stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and crashed into the ladder behind him.

Suddenly, sounds melded into a meaningless hum. Cuddy's body and voice seemed paralyzed as she stood with her mute mouth agape, her eyes fixed on a plastic jug at the top of the ladder that wobbled and tipped onto its side. The janitor scrambled for the jug, his lips forming words Cuddy couldn't interpret. Before he could pull it upright, the jug's contents spilled in a clear stream as House, drawn by the shouts from above him, looked up.

Seconds too late, House dropped his face and raised his arms to shield himself. As the liquid cascaded over him, his body curled in on itself and a deep howl ripped from his throat, cutting through the monotonous drone in Cuddy's ears and shocking her into motion.

Vaguely aware of her own voice, she barked orders at the flustered janitor, who gathered the jug in one arm and hastily replaced its cap. House rocked against the sidewalk, and she knelt beside him. His hands covered his face. Muffled broken cries accompanied shallow breaths. The pungent odor of ammonia assaulted her nose, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes against the unnerving images flash-flooding her brain. Patches of blackened, coagulated skin. Cloudy irises like the eyes of dead fish. Red, swollen eyelids missing their lashes. Her hands shook as she tried to haul him up from the ground. "Come on, House, a little help here."

House reached for her, eyes shut tightly, and managed to get one foot beneath him. With the help of raging adrenaline, Cuddy heaved him to stand and dragged him towards the doors, abandoning his cane on the sidewalk.

She considered wheeling him to ER, but it was a floor beneath them--too far, too many wasted seconds. Thankfully House showed little resistance and let her support him as she led him. His body was heavy and uncoordinated, and the weight made her knees tremble. Sweat gathered along her hairline, and her breath came in short huffs as she steered him into the Clinic, past clusters of alarmed faces.

As they passed through the doors, Cuddy shouted at a wide-eyed nurse. "I need a bottle of Alcaine and four--" Her order broke off with a hiss as House stumbled and forced her to brace herself against the wall. "--four liters of saline in exam room one, and page Dr. Wilson. Tell him it's an emergency."

With the strength worthy of a linebacker, she muscled House towards the door and threw it open. Inside, a patient sat on the exam table waiting to be seen.

"Out!" she demanded, maneuvering House to the counter to bend him over the sink.

The patient stared dumbly at her.

"Now!"

Cuddy ignored the patient's disgruntled murmurs as he scuttled from the room and, with near-superhuman speed, stripped House of his stinking, saturated jacket, turned on the tap, and pulled on a pair of gloves. As she guided his face towards the water, she drew measured breaths, mentally reviewing procedure, the medical mechanics.

"Okay, House," she said, adopting a tone of cool professionalism to cover the panic racing up her throat, flooding her mouth. She forced a swallow. "I need you to open your eyes as wide as possible."

A pained grunt slipped between his lips as his eyelids blinked open. The first vibrant, fury-red flash of sclera shocked her. The clarity of twin blue irises, however, pulled a tiny sigh of relief from her mouth as she laid a hand on the back of his head to urge him into the water.

House flinched at the water's contact and shut his eyes. "Fuck. It hurts."

A pang of sympathy rippled through her. "I know, but you have to keep them open."

"I can't. It _hurts_."

"Then hold them open. We need to flush your eyes and restore the proper pH balance to prevent any permanent--"

"Let's pour industrial chemicals into _your_ eyes and see if you can keep them open! We'll have a staring contest!" He blinked rapidly under the stream of water.

Cuddy's mouth snapped shut as the door opened and a nurse bustled inside, depositing an armful of supplies. Cuddy lunged for the small bottle of Alcaine and unscrewed the cap.

"Here's an anesthetic," she said, and applied a drop to each of his eyes. "It'll help you keep your eyes open." She was spouting information that he already knew, but the habit comforted her.

As she capped the bottle, a voice called into the room. "Hey, you needed to see me?"

Cuddy turned her head and found Wilson leaning into the room. She watched as his eyes settled on House, suddenly alert and full of concern. "What happened?" he asked.

From under the water, House interjected. "One of Cuddy's incompetent employees apparently couldn't tell the difference between a person and a pane of glass."

"Shut up, House." Cuddy swiped her forehead with her sleeve before turning towards Wilson. "He accidentally bumped a ladder and got a face full of window cleaner. Chemical burns in both eyes." She tracked Wilson as he approached the sink. "I would have taken him to the ER, but I didn't want to waste time."

"How long has it been?"

Cuddy shrugged. She had lost a clear concept of time. "Five minutes, maybe ten."

Wilson frowned and propped his hands on the counter beside the sink. "House, how's your vision? Is it blurry?"

For a moment, House was quiet. His lips opened and closed several times before he offered a flat "No".

"Spotted vision?"

"No."

Cuddy noticed the crack in House's voice and, when she glanced at Wilson's face, she knew he had heard it, too.

"House," Wilson uttered and paused to inhale a slow breath. "Can you see?"

Cuddy bit her bottom lip and stared at House, watching his Adam's apple bob in his throat. She caught the subtle shake of his head and squeezed her eyes shut.

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

One sentence echoed inside Cuddy's brain, ricocheting like a tiny pin ball.

 _"It's possible that the vision loss will be permanent, but it's too early to tell."_

Cuddy struggled to focus on the voice of Dr. Greene, one of the hospital's counselors for the disabled, who was delivering a crash course on caring for the blind. Dr. Greene lounged in a leather armchair, legs crossed and hands folded. A pair of large, round glasses magnified her eyes, which glanced between Cuddy and Wilson as she spoke. Cuddy could hardly bear to maintain eye contact. Beside her, Wilson had dropped his chin to his chest and failed to lift his head once, focusing instead on his lap full of literature-- _Sighted Guide Tips; Promises to Keep for Family and Friends of the Newly Blinded Person; Living with Vision Loss: Everyday Skills._

Cuddy let her gaze wander the room. It came to rest on the name plate at the edge of Dr. Greene's desk. _Dr. Greene. Green. House may never see green again._

She had taken House to meet with the staff ophthalmologist, where House had maintained an eerie, uncharacteristic silence. She'd stood beside him, expecting impatient retorts, rebuttals, insults, but his mouth had stayed shut, his lips set in a tight line. Instead, she had spoken for him, scheduling a follow-up and accepting a prescription for broad-spectrum antibiotic drops and a supply of pressure patches.

She'd demanded that he stay at the hospital, hoping to draw an emotional reaction--anger, frustration, grief, _something_. When she'd held his wrist to fasten his hospital bracelet, he'd finally resisted, slamming his fist against the arm of the wheelchair and growling at her to stop, to take him home. Jolts of pain and bittersweet relief had jarred her heart, and she'd shut her eyes as she'd snapped the bracelet closed.

Cuddy shook her head against the memory and forced herself to focus on Dr. Greene's words.

"When you're speaking to him," said Dr. Greene, "look directly at him. The lack of eye contact will make it difficult, but it will be easier for him to track your voice if you face him when you speak."

Cuddy frowned at one of the open pamphlets on her thigh and slapped it shut.

"Did you have a question, Dr. Cuddy?"

She kept her eyes downcast as she shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. I was just..." She gestured to her lap.

"I know it's a lot of information. It can be overwhelming."

Cuddy could detect her sympathetic smile, and her stomach twisted.

An uncomfortable pause filled the room. Beside her, Wilson shifted in his seat.

Dr. Greene continued in a cool, professional rhythm. "You should also remember to refrain from taking care of tasks that he would normally do. Cutting his food. Changing a radio station. If you see him struggling, ask him if he needs help. He'll probably tell you if he wants it."

Wilson snorted. "You don't know House, do you?" His voice was strained with forced politeness. "He would rather slice his arm to ribbons before he admitted that he needed help."

Cuddy chanced a glance at Dr. Greene's bulging insect-eyes. She sighed. "It's true."

Dr. Greene raised her eyebrows. "Well, some patients are especially resistant to help. Unfortunately, it's unwise to force assistance on him. Only encourage rehabilitation if he expresses any interest."

Cuddy cleared her throat. "Without a rehabilitation program, how long will it take for him to adjust to all of this?"

"It always varies, but with a good network of support, he may begin to accept his condition and regain some of his independence within six months."

A heavy weight settled in Cuddy's chest. She nodded mutely, forcing a half-hearted smile. She heard the flutter of papers as Wilson's foot bounced against the carpet. Recognizing his unspoken distress and thankful for an excuse to leave, she stood and extended her hand toward Dr. Greene. "Thank you, Dr. Greene. You've been very helpful."

Wilson followed her out of Dr. Greene's office, his posture unnaturally stiff. He shook his handful of papers. "None of _this_ is going to work. You know House. He won't want help. He--"

"I know," she said, stopping beside the elevators and pressing the down arrow. "But he'll need our help whether he wants it or not."

Wilson sighed and stumbled over his words. "It's just--House can't--trying to help him is like trying to give an angry cat a bath."

Cuddy nodded and glanced toward the elevator as the door slid open. Before she could step inside, a nurse barreled out of the car, nearly trampling her.

"Oh! Dr. Cuddy!" The nurse struggled to catch her breath. "We tried your pager, but you didn't respond."

Cuddy had thrown it in her purse before she had chased House out of the building. She had planned to corner House then escape for the evening. Plans had changed.

Cuddy raised her eyebrows and motioned for the nurse to continue.

"There's been an emergency," she said. "It's Dr. House."

Cuddy met Wilson's worried eyes.

"He's missing."


	3. Chapter 3

"How can you lose a blind cripple?" Wilson exclaimed as he charged out of the elevator. Cuddy raced behind him to House's empty room as quickly as her high heels would allow. The sheets hung over the side of the bed. A cup of water on the bed tray had been overturned and spilled water formed a puddle on the floor.

The nurse fidgeted with her hands. "I was looking in on him every few minutes in case he needed anything. One minute he was lying in bed and, the next time I checked, he was gone."

Cuddy spied watery footprints that headed towards the door. "How long ago?"

"Ten minutes?"

"Okay," she said, looking to Wilson who stood like a sentry awaiting orders, arms stiff at his sides. Cuddy drew herself up, straightening her back, squaring her shoulders. She pointed at the nurse. "You, stay here. If he wanders back, get him into his room and don't let him leave. Cuff him to the bed if you have to. Dr. Wilson and I will search the rest of the floor. I'll take this wing. You" --She pointed to Wilson. --"take the Hamilton Wing. I doubt he managed to find his way onto another floor in ten minutes, but if he doesn't turn up, we'll branch out."

Without a word, Wilson nodded and jogged out of the room. The nurse retreated to her station, her head turning to look down each hall within view at regular intervals.

Cuddy followed the footprints out of the room. Several steps beyond the door, however, the footprints faded, and Cuddy stood alone in the hall suddenly without a lead. She pushed the hair away from her face, privately questioning her reasons behind House's admittance. Apart from the treatment his ophthalmologist had ordered, there was little the hospital could do for him until his follow-up appointment. Forcing House to stay here--forcing him to do _anything_ \--guaranteed trouble. In his own home, House would undoubtedly cause fewer problems. No nurses or orderlies to torment. No grand plans to escape and, consequently, no immediate risk to his safety. At home, House would stay put. He would be safer, she thought, and perhaps a fraction less miserable.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned to look at House's empty bed through his room's glass wall. Her own reflection, distorted by a smudge on the glass, returned her solemn expression. She squinted, focusing on the smudge. It formed a handprint. Identical prints led to her right, across the glass and, if she looked closely, onto the paneled wall.

Hope fluttering in her chest, she bolted down the corridor. She stopped at the first door at which she arrived, assuming that House had locked himself in the first empty room he encountered. The sign on the door read "Custodial Supplies". Great, she thought, as she imagined House perched atop an overturned bucket amidst shelves of paper towels, hand soap, and industrial chemicals--exactly the kind of company he should be keeping. Light leaked from under the door, and she twisted the knob to find the door locked. Her fist rose and her knuckles hammered over the silver printed letters.

"House, are you in there?" She strained her ears to listen and heard a shuffle.

Cuddy raised her fist to knock again, but the door flew open and a young, sandy-haired janitor peered at her, mop in hand and about to wheel a bucket of soapy water into the corridor.

"Uh, I'm sorry, I thought--" Cuddy stopped short. _What? I thought you might have been an escaped patient who locked himself in the closet. Right._ "I'm sorry." She offered a tight, close-lipped smile and continued down the hall.

More handprints marred the shiny glass of other patients' rooms, and Cuddy jogged on the balls of her feet, replacing her long strides with short, quick ones. After failing to open several locked doors, she finally entered an empty room--the ladies' restroom.

Two bare feet were visible in the first stall. A quiet sigh of relief left her as she approached the stall, the acoustics in the room amplifying the clicks of her heels. The feet shuffled.

"This is the ladies' room, House," she said without preamble.

A weak sigh came from inside the stall, followed by a faint "Damn it."

Cuddy was unsure if House had sworn because he had escaped to the wrong bathroom or because she had cornered him. "You do realize," she continued, "that there's a bathroom in your room. Private, with a door and everything."

House stayed silent for several minutes. Cuddy waited, peeking beneath the stall door, watching House's feet shift occasionally, listening to the rustle of his hospital gown.

With another sigh, he said, "I didn't need a bathroom. I needed quiet."

"It's quiet in your room."

"No it isn't," he spat. "The nurse wouldn't leave me alone for more than a few minutes. Did you think I was going to gouge out my useless eyeballs, go all Oedipus on you?"

"No-o-o," she sarcastically dragged out the word. "I thought you'd sit quietly and cooperate. Clearly, you've proven me wrong."

"I don't need nurses hanging over my shoulder." House's next words were softer, as if he were speaking to himself. "I want to go home."

The toilet paper spun on its roll, and Cuddy's eyebrows furrowed. She tried to peek through the crack between the wall and the door. "Are you actually going--"

"If I was, would you leave?"

"No," she answered as she crouched, craning her neck to look into the stall. House sat on the toilet, hospital gown clutched tightly in his fist, head hanging limply between his shoulders. Two black pressure patches covered his eyes. Cringing, she lowered herself to the floor.

"I can hear you down there," he said. "Stop trying to peek under my gown."

"You _are_ irresistible." She pulled herself across the floor with her elbows, fighting away mental images of magnified bacteria, and shimmied into House's stall, shoving his feet aside so she could stand. She unlocked the door, letting it swing open, and grabbed House's wrist.

"What are you doing?" House locked his fingers around the handicap support bars, trying to use his weight to keep her from dragging him out of the stall.

"You shouldn't be here." She forced House to a standing position, refusing to feel guilty about his wince, and put her arm around his back to hold on to his waist. House immediately wrapped his arm over her shoulders, fingertips digging into muscle, pressing hard against her bones.

"I'd rather be here than back in that damn room."

"I'm sending you home."

For the first time in recent memory, Cuddy failed to hear an argument from House. She led him towards the nurse's station where Wilson waited, his arms crossed and his foot tapping the linoleum. Later, when Wilson wheeled House out of the building, Cuddy leaned over the counter of the reception desk, eyes still gazing at the front doors, and said, "I need to arrange outpatient care for Dr. House."


	4. Chapter 4

Despite House's attempts to shake him off, Wilson maintained a solid grip on House's arm until House found himself unceremoniously deposited on his own couch. House rubbed his skin, attempting to soothe the painful tingles there, while Wilson, as if continuing a previous conversation, blurted, "Oh and that was a nice stunt, by the way."

"It wasn't a _stunt_."

"No consideration. No consideration for the fact that people might be worried about your sudden _disappearance_. Not a second thought." Then, as an afterthought, he uttered, "Probably not even a _first_ thought."

"I wanted to go home."

"You could have ended up in the stairwell, fallen down and cracked your skull, broke some ribs, or _worse_ , then laid there for God knows how long until somebody found you. Jesus, House, are two disabilities not enough for you?"

"I wanted to _go home_ ," he repeated, this time through clenched teeth.

"And if, by some _miracle_ , you actually made it out the door in one piece, what did you think would happen? Did you think you'd hitch a ride back to your house, or, better yet, magically _teleport_ yourself into your living room?"

House silently bet himself all the cash in his wallet that Wilson was waving his arms like an air traffic controller on speed. "I would have--"

"You would have put yourself at serious risk. Christ, House, I swear, sometimes you can be such an _idiot_. You can't see beyond your immediate--"

While Wilson continued to ramble, his voice moving behind him from one end of the couch to the other, House patted the cushions for the television remote and found it atop one of the arms of the couch. By rote, his finger located the power button and the television blared to life.

Wilson's voice paused mid-word. House imagined Wilson's incredulous, wide-eyed stare, flickering from the screen to his face. "House, what the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to drown out your interminable bitching."

"By watching TV? You can't watch TV."

House tightened his grip on the remote, sensing an attempted steal. "You can't tell _me_ when I can and can't watch my own TV."

"House," Wilson said, taking care to pronounce each word fully. "You can't _watch_ TV."

House whirled to face the general location of Wilson's voice. "Right, well then, _listen_ to the TV! You can't tell me when I can and cannot _listen_ to my own damn TV. I'll turn it on, put it on mute, and let it play all fucking day if I want to!" He pounded the fisted remote into the cushion. "So why don't you _shut up_ , make yourself useful, and get me a drink? I don't really give a damn what it is. Give me a glass of arsenic for all I care. Arsenic poisoning would be a better way to go than listening to you."

"I'm not getting you a drink."

"Then get out."

Hands slapped on thighs. "Nice way to show a little gratitude. We could have chained you to the hospital bed."

"Gratitude? Yes, I'm so grateful that, in the past 48 hours, I've been _blinded_ and admitted against my will."

"We let you leave! We gave you what you wanted!"

"Let me leave?" House heard the pitch of his own voice leap up an octave. "I didn't know I needed permission to stay in my own damn house!"

"Cuddy had enough justification to keep you there. You needed monitoring. You needed treatment. You still do, but now we have to come over here every day to make sure you haven't self-destructed."

"I don't need you to be my babysitter." House made his voice as fierce as possible, sure to bare teeth. " _Get out_."

"Fine, I'll leave you to your misery."

"My God, _finally_ , we understand each other." House threw himself into the cushions, arms flopping against the leather.

Wilson let out a rueful, humorless laugh and stepped across the floor with a force capable of chipping the wood. The slam of the door resonated within the apartment, and House pressed buttons on the remote until the sound of the television died, plunging him into a deep, still silence.

He sat stubbornly for a while, trying to convince himself he preferred this silent, solitary existence, but he shifted uncomfortably. His heart hammered a strong beat in his chest. Breaths tore through him noisily. It occurred to him that he had never heard every beat, every breath so clearly in his own ears. The sounds seemed to wrap around his bones, crawl up his spine, and spin a vortex in his head. House shook his head as if to clear it, pushing a hand through his hair.

He felt the nerve endings beneath his skin wake with sensation. Fingers absorbed the feel of tiny creases in worn, cold leather. Air wafted, ghost-like and chilled, on the back of his neck. Pain registered on a heightened scale, ripping through his thigh and circling around his knee, extending into his hip, curling around his back. His eyelids felt as though they were lined with sandpaper and scraped painfully across his cornea. Beneath the patches, House closed his eyes tightly, squeezing tears from the corners to wet the parched surface. His mouth felt as desert-dry as his eyes, his tongue a cotton mass, and he tried to swallow, barely managing to force a pool of frothy saliva down his throat.

He considered fetching a glass of water from the kitchen and shifted to the edge of the couch, laying his feet flat on the floor, fighting to work up the nerve to stand. His mind conjured the layout of his furniture but exaggerated distances. The route to the sink morphed into an infinite path, obscured with obstacles. He eased back onto the couch, lifting his legs onto the cushions. Water could wait, he thought. It wasn't worth bruised shins, stubbed toes, and the realization of his inability to successfully navigate through his own house.

It felt as though he were trapped on an island, marooned on a strip of sand along the coast, fearful of venturing into the dark, thick foliage that lay behind him. House's imagination latched onto the image, and sounds suddenly seemed to rise from the floor panels and seep through the drywall. The ticks of the wall clock registered as drops of rain falling from lush wide leaves, black with the night. An idling car resembled the low growl of an animal crouching in the underbrush, preparing for an ambush. Slamming doors combined with the ceiling's creaks and groans to create an image of a great canopy of tree branches at their breaking point, seconds from collapsing. He saw himself beneath it as it fell, heard the cracking of his own bones, the whoosh of breath forced from his lungs, the crunch of his body as it crumpled into a compact mass--all imaginary sounds, but grotesquely clear as they echoed in his head.

House covered his ears with his hands. His breaths grew harsh and fast. Sweat lined his forehead, cooled by the air conditioning, and he shivered. His heart felt as though it were beating in the middle of his throat, ready to leap out of his mouth and smear itself on the cushion, leaving a sickening streak of color he would never see. Gripped by a sudden, irrational terror, he closed his mouth, pressing his lips together with his teeth, and felt a strong urge to flee, horrified by an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. Unsure of where to go, he pressed his back into the corner of the couch instead, his outstretched legs twitching with the desire to curl close to his body.

The deafening whirlwind of sounds inside his head reached a fever pitch. Hands pressed painfully against his forehead. Fingers dug into his skull, desperate to stop the noise. _Stop. Just stop. Shut up. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup._

He jumped as the exterior door of the building slammed shut and banished the noise to the recesses of his brain. Overlapping voices and obnoxious laughs, pitches that didn't complement one another, echoed in the hall. House sank lower into the couch, hoping that if he stayed still and quiet, they would pass quickly. He bowed his head, covered the back of it with both hands, when a knock--just a bump, accidental, he was sure--struck the door. The boisterous voices formed words; House discerned each one easily.

"Dude, the guy who lives here, he's a fucking cripple."

"Really? Did you see him?"

"Yeah, getting the mail the other day. He's got a cane. Messed-up leg."

"Probably some stupid-ass vet who got his leg blown off in the Gulf."

"It's not blown off, dick wad. He just limps and shit. Can't walk right."

"You should knock on the door, make him drag his crippled ass over here to answer it."

"I don't know. I don't want to get caught."

"What do you think he's going to do, chase after us?"

"He could use his cane as a weapon."

"Come on, you pussy."

Laughter and unrelenting goads exploded from under the door until several fists struck the door like an endless round of machine gun fire. House tried to block it out, his body tightening, ticking and ready-- _wanting_ \--to blast their punk asses onto the street. He tipped his head back into the cushion, groaning, willing them to _go the fuck away._

They were surprisingly persistent. _Gutsy bastards_. When the knocks finally slowed, becoming more rhythmic and regular, one of them called out in a last-ditch effort, "Can't get your crippled ass to the fucking door, old man?"

House struggled to draw breaths as their laughter faded, killed at last by the slam of a door. He wedged himself further into the corner of the couch, simultaneously overcome with and disgusted by a desperate need for comfort, for company. Rubbing hard at his forehead, he cursed his own dismissive attitude that guaranteed Wilson's departure and contemplated calling him back. He thought of Cuddy, who would undoubtedly be too wracked with unjustified guilt to refuse him, and whose company possessed the probable advantage of being less embarrassing and more soothing. Hell, he would give her a chance to exercise her pent-up maternal instincts, outwardly resistant but privately, parasitically absorbing all the attention she cared to offer. If he could get her talking, the sound of her voice would drown out the meaningless hum of noise already rebuilding and would lull him to sleep with news of budget reports, unsuccessful dates, her grocery list--it didn't matter.

The room suddenly felt like the coldest place in the world, and House pushed his body further back into the cushions, body trembling, hands groping for the blanket that he kept draped over the couch. _Jesus, he was pathetic_. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders--a poor substitute for the comfort of a familiar body--and sandwiched his head between the cushion and a pillow, muffling the dizzying noise that circled around him like a screeching flock of Turkey Vultures and gradually falling into a restless, dreamless sleep.

Nearly a week passed before House finally slept through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

The formalities of House's absence and outpatient care were handled over the course of the following days. Cuddy had arranged for House's sick leave. Wilson had briefed House's team on the situation and, under Cuddy's orders, had issued temporary assignments to different departments--Foreman had gone to Neurology, Chase to the Trauma Unit, Cameron to the AIDS Unit.

Her schedule had been hectic of late, and Cuddy hadn't visited House, as a friend or a doctor, since he'd left the hospital. Wilson swung by at least once a day, however, to administer medications and check his condition. Cuddy had told Wilson to take House off corticosteroids to prevent future complications, but to keep him on the antibiotics until the surface layers of his eyes healed and the risk of infection decreased. She'd also kept House on a prescription antibiotic skin cream to treat the skin burns. Wilson reported back after each visit, and apparently House had been quiet, occasionally speaking, always dismissive and curt.

Dr. Green had suggested an exercise to get a better grasp on what House was experiencing and, hopefully, help facilitate understanding and communication: blindfolding. Cuddy had rolled her eyes, but finally considered it after Wilson had arrived at the hospital, bitterly complaining about another uncommunicative visit.

"House would have loved to see this," Wilson said, as he knotted the blindfold at the back of her head.

She released a half-laugh, a snort of air in agreement, wincing as she felt the pull of a few pieces of hair. "Don't do anything House would do," she warned.

"I wouldn't dream of usurping House's reign as your top sexual harasser."

She felt a strong sense of abandonment and fear when she felt the warmth of Wilson's body step away from her. "We probably shouldn't help each other," she said. "It would be more realistic that way."

"Right," he agreed. "I'll be over by the door. I don't want to get in your way."

She took a wary step. "Somehow I don't think I'll be going very far."

Her hands shot out, searching for something to guide her. She hunched a little, trying to find the table near the sofa. Her shins found it before her hand did. She let out a grunt and rubbed her shin.

"You all right?"

She nodded, found the table with her hand and traced the edge as she slowly crept around it. She made her way across the room, arms outstretched, waving them back and forth to locate any obstacles. She felt the heat of the incoming sun and knew she must be close to a window. "I can't imagine living like this," she said.

Wilson stayed silent. She imagined he was nodding.

She thought the desk should be here, but her hand swiped through the air. "I'm here every day. I should know this room."

"The eyes process more information that we realize," he said. His voice sounded far away.

She leaned forward, afraid to take another step and collide with the desk. Her fingers felt something and she grabbed for it, not quite finding a hold, and knocking over the cup of pens on the desk. She heard them spill onto the surface. Some rolled off the desk and onto the floor.

"Damn it," she whispered under her breath and let her head fall. Great, she thought. Pens to avoid. Fun way to twist an ankle.

She shuffled her feet, not lifting them off the carpet. The toe of her shoe butted against the desk leg as her hand found the corner of the desk. She guided it along the lip of the desk to get to her chair. Every move of her hand from one object to the next felt like a giant leap, and she felt unsure whenever she wasn't grounded. Her foot crunched plastic beneath her--a pen. She wondered if she'd left an ink stain on the carpet. She finally sat, feeling safer than when she had stood. She sighed; a simple process that had once taken seconds took minutes.

She lifted the blindfold and found Wilson, leaning up against the door, hands in his pockets. They exchanged uncertain looks. She held the cloth out to him. "Your turn."

"Do you think we could pick up the pens first?"

She looked down. "We don't need two incapacitated department heads, do we?" Her joke fell flat, even with herself. They both gathered the stray pens and replaced them in the cup.

He sighed deeply then and turned his back to her.

She tied the blindfold and stepped away, back into her chair. "Sit in my chair and you'll end up in my lap, and as much as you may enjoy that, I won't."

Wilson grinned and started walking forward. Cuddy watched him, and decided that it was more painful than trying to do this herself. Wilson was trying, she presumed, to find a place to sit, heading toward the sofa. His steps lacked the confidence they usually exhibited. He stood less straight, one arm out and the other lower, trying to feel around the space. He was heading straight for the end table. She supposed that he didn't remember it was there, and she couldn't bring herself to let him hurt himself. "Wilson, you're going to--"

Before she finished, his hand found the cactus on the end table and he reared up. "Oh, damn it!" As he swung his hand, it connected with the lamp on the table. She grimaced as he roared, "Jesus!" He whipped off the blindfold to look at his hand, then point at the table. "Has this always been here?"

She nodded. She only imagined that the frustration in Wilson's voice must have been magnified exponentially when House was frustrated, alone, no blindfold to throw off, cast into the darkness indefinitely. She wondered how many times House had run into furniture, how often he struggled to find a way around his own home. They had experienced something scary for five minutes, but it had been temporary. What House was experiencing must be much more terrifying with the knowledge of its permanence.

The doors of her office swung open, and both of their heads turned to face a nurse who cruised into the office with a manila interdepartmental envelope. The nurse eyed the blindfold in Wilson's hand, raising an eyebrow as she approached Cuddy's desk, and extended the envelope. "This came through from the executive board," she said. Cuddy mumbled her thanks as she took it. The nurse nodded, turned, and left.

As Cuddy opened the envelope, Wilson piped up from where he stood near the end table. "I think I'm going to head out, check on House before going home."

Cuddy scanned the page, Wilson's words failing to register. _Emergency meeting...has recently come to our attention...discuss matters of personnel...make necessary changes_. She lifted her head from the page, flustered. "What?"

"House," he said. "I'm going to check on him and head home."

 _House_. She glanced down at the memo. _Personnel. Necessary changes._ Still facing the page, she absently replied, "Sure, of course."

"Is everything all right?"

When she raised her eyes, she saw Wilson's finger pointing to the memo. "What, this? Yeah, it's fine," she said, managing enough composure to pacify him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Cuddy dropped her eyes back to the memo, staring, and heard Wilson's steps across her carpet, then out of her office. For several minutes, she couldn't bring herself to move, a heavy, nameless dread filling her and rooting her where she sat.


	6. Chapter 6

" _Fuck_!" House flung out his arm to find the arm of the couch, bending over to reach for his right foot, which had connected with the leg of the coffee table. "God _damn_ it." A strong throb already pulsed in his toes and, as he sat on the couch, his foot propped on his knee, a firm knock reached his ears.

House sighed discontentedly, still clasping his foot. His morning had been Wilson-free and, consequently, free of condescension and criticisms. Wilson's recent visits had consisted of a potpourri of lectures, shouting matches, and patronizing advice. House gingerly lowered his foot to the floor, hoping a bruise wouldn't form before Wilson left, and called, "You better have drugs."

The door opened. "Lucky for you, I do," said Wilson. The door shut softly as Wilson's footsteps grew louder as he approached the couch.

House huffed. "Yeah, lucky." He held out his hand when he heard a rattle of pills, closing his fist when Wilson laid the vial in his palm. House tossed a pill into his mouth, even though his leg pain was, at the moment, relatively minimal.

As he swallowed, he heard Wilson's voice down near the floor. "What happened to your toes?"

"Nothing," House gritted out.

"Your middle one is bruised." Before House could move his leg onto the couch, away from inspection, Wilson's hands were lifting it off the floor. "What happened?" he asked again. "Don't tell me 'nothing'."

House grimaced with the movement of his leg, dropped his head, and sighed. He figured he would forego the high road and attempt honest civility. "Ran into the table," he admitted. "Lost my bearings."

Wilson set House's foot back on the floor. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I know how that is."

His words hovered between them for a moment. House digested them, feeling incredulous rage bubbling, brewing. " _What_?"

"Uh, I just mean--this afternoon, Cuddy and I did this blindfolding exercise--"

A forceful laugh erupted from him. "And now you know exactly what I'm going through. You can ' _empathize_ '."

"I never said that I know exactly--"

" _I_ can't rip these off"--House pointed to his eye patches.--"and _see_ again. You--you have no idea, _no idea_ what this is like." House let his head fall into his hands, pressing the heels of his hands against his cheekbones. "No idea."

Silence fell between them for several minutes, broken when House felt a touch on his arm. He wildly swatted at Wilson's hand. "No," House spat. "Don't. You do that to your dying patients, touch them like that. Don't _ever_ touch me like that."

"House."

The tone in Wilson's voice--apologetic, sincere--nearly made House back off, but Wilson was good, _so good_ , at faking sincerity and House couldn't bring himself to trust that tone. He scooted backwards on the couch, inserting as much distance between them as possible. "You must love this," House said bitterly.

"What?" Wilson asked, sounding genuinely confused.

House waved his arm, not caring if it happened to connect with Wilson's head. " _This_. Hide it all you want, but you're devouring this with so much enthusiasm that you won't be searching for another damsel in distress for _years_."

Wilson's clothes rustled quietly as he stood. "Of _course_ I don't love this."

House scoffed. "Could have fooled me."

Wilson stood for a moment--House imagined his mouth opening and closing, forming no words--before he strode towards the door and pulled it open. "Go to hell, House."

House's bitter, whispered reply was partially covered by the closing of the door. "Already there, fucking moron."


	7. Chapter 7

Cuddy's heart hammered. She still held her fist aloft, poised to knock again, the fourth time, at House's door.

After Wilson had left her office, Cuddy's mind had been swarming with thoughts of House, the news from the executive board, and, hours later, as she had stood to leave, she had felt her stomach plummet like a sandbag. Acting on her impulses, she had swept up her purse, locked her office, and sped to House's apartment.

She rapped again. No answer. No sound--no movement, no shuffling, no fumbling from inside. Cuddy scanned the ground. No doormat or potted plants with which to conceal a spare key. She stood on her toes to drag her fingertips along the top of the doorframe. No key. She raised her fist for one more knock as she whispered, "Come on, House."

"Jesus Christ! It's open!"

Cuddy nearly turned tail and fled for her car, but the compulsion to see him--maybe note some small improvement--outweighed the anxiety pressing on her insides. Silent steps carried her over the threshold as she sidled into the room. Darkness dominated the space; moonlight highlighted its black tones with an eerie quicksilver finish. Cuddy squinted from the foyer and spied a tuft of House's hair--it gleamed gray in the light--peeking over the top of a couch cushion.

"You really are a vampire," House drawled. "Can't go twenty-four hours without another fix."

Cuddy's brow furrowed with confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, forming her words slowly. Her hand groped along the wall and found a light switch. "But I'm sure that you're in no position to criticize anyone's addictions."

"Oh. Cuddy," he said. The surprise in his voice nearly hid his bitterness. "I thought you were Wilson. So, is it your turn to babysit?"

She hitched her purse over her shoulder as she rounded the couch, stepping heavily on the floorboards for his benefit. "I told Wilson I wouldn't accept less than forty dollars an hour."

"That cheap, huh?"

"No, you moron, I'm--" Cuddy's words lodged in her throat as her eyes fell on him for the first time since he had left the hospital. He looked haggard. He had tucked himself into the corner of the couch, slouched low. His loose, plain t-shirt bunched across his stomach and bore a light brown stain. He wore no socks, and two toes of his right foot were swollen and discolored. A run-in with a piece of furniture, she assumed. His face was dark with a heavy growth of facial hair. "I'm--I'm your doctor," she stuttered, trying to bury her worry. She braced one knee on the cushion beside him. "I'm here to check you out."

"Here for a sneak peek at the man meat?" He extended the waistband of his pants. "Go ahead. I won't _look_." His tone was scathing, punctuated by the return snap of the elastic against his skin.

Her chest tightened and, for once, she was relieved that he couldn't see her face. She could feel the unwelcomed heat of guilt creeping into her face and, when she spoke, her voice wasn't as firm as she had intended. "Your eyes, House."

He offered no cooperation as she leaned over him and reached behind his head to remove the pressure patches. One hand lifted his chin and tilted his face towards the ceiling. His skin resembled the leather of a broken-in baseball glove, thick with oil and unwashed grime. The grease of his face gathered in his brow creases. Cuddy felt her fingers slide against his temples as she leaned over him. House still squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed himself into the couch as if he wanted to disappear between the cushions.

Cuddy drew a deep breath. "Open," she ordered.

House's jaw clenched. Cuddy suspected he would resist, but he forced a swallow and his eyelids fluttered open. A shaky exhale blustered out of her. She tried to focus on the clinical--sclera still red, eyelids less swollen but still irritated, skin condition improving with no apparent scarring. No evidence of further damage to eyes or skin. The initial flushing must have prevented any late-onset damage. But despite their clarity, House's eyes were bereft of their usual expressiveness, their color pallid and dull. No emotion, no life, swam behind his pupils. Eyelids blinked to moisten two dead eyes that stared past her, blank and unfocused. In the past, if she had leaned close to him like this, House would have leered down her shirt, twisting his head to get the best glimpse of her cleavage, and make a crude comment. Now, her heart constricted with the knowledge that he wouldn't--couldn't--do that. She felt her stomach twist, her insides like a towel wrung dry, and she inhaled, trying to squelch the persistent physical ache.

She lowered her face until she was certain he could feel her breath on his skin. There must be anger, there, she thought, fury hiding in the depths of his pupils or simmering in the darker shades of blue at the edge of his irises. But nothing flickered, and he upheld his expressionless mask. Cuddy cleared her throat. Her middle finger smoothed one of his eyebrows before her hands dropped to her side.

"They don't look any worse," she said, almost a whisper.

"Oh, well, that's great news. Wouldn't want my useless eyes deteriorating."

She felt the bite of his tone in her chest, but she pressed on. "Did you use the drops today?"

After a moment, he shook his head. "I think Wilson keeps them in the--"

"I brought a bottle with me. It's in my purse." She fished through the bag and came up with the drops, quickly uncapping the bottle. She leaned back over him, bottle poised over his left eye. "Okay, ready?"

She figured his frown and eyebrow raise signaled his affirmative and squeezed one drop from the bottle. The drop spread across the surface of his eye on contact. As House blinked, grimacing, Cuddy shifted over him, wrapping her arm around the top of his head to hold the bottle above his other eye. Cuddy forgot to warn him before the second drop, and House inhaled sharply at the surprise. Excess liquid--a mixture of the extra medication and his tears--leaked out of the corner of his eye. Cuddy stared at it as it glistened in the lamplight and caught it on her finger before it rolled over his cheekbone. She rubbed it into her skin with her thumb, sitting back and settling on the other end of the couch. She watched as House leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, groaning quietly.

"When was your last Vicodin?" she asked, eyes scanning the tables for the prescription vial.

"How am I supposed to know?" He threw himself back into the cushions. "My clocks don't talk to me."

Her chest grew impossibly tighter. "Do you need any?"

"Soon."

Cuddy returned the eye drops to her purse and fiddled with the clasp before snapping it closed. She surveyed the room. Books still sat open on the coffee table. A couple pairs of sneakers cluttered the foyer. Several mugs littered both end tables, some still half-filled. She raised one mug to her nose, hoping to smell coffee or juice instead of alcohol. Her face crunched with repulsion when she sniffed at the mug, and slow realization settled over her. "House, this mug is full of--"

"Drinks on the right. Piss on the left." He paused, then extended his hand towards her. "Actually, can you hand me one of those? And I'd appreciate if you left me with a _little_ dignity, so it would be great if you could turn around or something."

Cuddy's mouth hung open with dismay and she grabbed hold of his hand instead, hauling him to a standing position before he could fight her. "The bathroom's thirty feet away. Let's go." She laid a hand on the center of his back and pushed gently.

"Mug's closer," he spat, but let her lead him towards the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, Cuddy tried to position him in front of the toilet, but he jerked away from her.

"I'm a big boy, Cuddy. Potty trained and everything."

Sighing, she looked at him for a few seconds before she left the room and closed the door. She leaned close to the door and heard the rustle of his pants. Then she heard nothing else. Slowly, she turned the knob and soundlessly pushed open the door to see his stream of urine trailing along the floor near the toilet. Cuddy's heart sank into her stomach as she watched him seeking out the open toilet, his face tense with frustration. When the stream finally hit the water, his fist gently struck the wall and his head dropped, shaking from side to side as his lips moved with an indistinguishable whisper.

Before the stream tapered off, Cuddy hurried into the living room on her tiptoes, scolding herself. She should have just given him the mug when he'd asked for it, let him handle this in his own way instead of dragging him to the bathroom to remind him of what he couldn't do. She stood at the back of the couch when he exited the bathroom, his hands feeling along the wall into the living room. He broke away from the wall and headed in the direction of the couch, groping at the air. Tears prickled in her eyes when he flung himself onto the couch and retreated to his corner. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, and the silence was heavy. She eyed the bathroom, nearly pulled by the urge to clean up the mess on the floor, but she gathered her purse instead, throwing it over her shoulder. Allowing herself another look at him, she put a hand on his shoulder and felt the sting when he flinched. Words nearly catapulted out of her mouth: _It will be all right. It will get better. Wilson and I are here for you. We love you._ But she swallowed against them, pushing them backwards; she knew better.

"Good night, House," she choked out as she squeezed his shoulder.

She wiped furiously at her tears as she shifted her car into gear and pulled away from the curb.


	8. Chapter 8

House spun in his kitchen, mind whirling, searching his memory for the last place he had left his Vicodin. Pain coursed through his leg, forcing him to use both hands to steady himself against the counter as he staggered across the room. He had spent the last hour or so searching all of the logical places--coffee table, end tables, between couch cushions, the floor of the living room--and he had started looking in unlikely ones. Tearing open the refrigerator, his hand skimmed the shelves. He felt inside the pantry, then moved to the cupboards. When his fingers curled around a smooth, short cylinder, his heart leapt, and he frantically opened the container and spilled its contents onto his palm, rubbing the deposited pile with the pad of his finger. _Dried leaves? Herbs? Herbs. Damn it._ He overturned his hand and let the herbs fall onto the counter, then resumed his search, feeling his way out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the bathroom.

His foot slipped on the floor, and one hand shot out to steady himself. He fell forward and braced his body against the sink, wondering if one of his pipes had started leaking. His chest coiled with burning anger when he recalled his earlier, supervised trip to the bathroom. _Couldn't even take a piss properly._ House found a hand towel hanging near the sink and tossed it onto the floor near the base of the toilet to soak up his stale urine.

Back on track, he threw open the medicine cabinet, finding bottles of over-the-counter painkillers, antihistamines, prescription cough medicine--several years old--and nail clippers, each bottle too large or too wide to be a prescription vial. Growling to himself, he slammed the cabinet door and dragged himself, slouched over and breathing heavily, to the bedroom as he tried to will the spasms in his leg to cease.

He patted the contents of his dresser drawers, tossing unfolded clothes to feel along the bottoms. In his closet, his hands dove into blazer pockets, even though he hadn't worn any of them for over a week. When the raid yielded no finds, he returned to the living room, falling onto the couch, hands kneading his thigh and his entire body tense with pain and frustration. He promised himself that, once he found it or acquired a new one, the vial would never leave his person. He couldn't risk losing it, upending his apartment each time it disappeared. He pushed his fingers through his hair before running his hands across the coffee table _again_ and, then, each end table _again_ , identifying books, mugs, magazines, the phone. _The phone_. His hand froze as a tiny, minuscule glimmer of hope rose in his throat. Wilson, Cuddy--either of them would deliver all the Vicodin he needed if he could get in touch with them.

House lifted the receiver from the cradle and thought for a moment, recalling Wilson's home phone number. His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the buttons on the phone and held it to his ear.

"'Ello?" A television blared in the background.

House didn't hesitate. "Wilson, I need a refill. It's urgent."

"Wilson?" The voice sounded perplexed. "Who is this?"

House's lungs momentarily stopped functioning and his fingers clutched harder at the plastic pressed to his ear. The voice, he suddenly realized, sounded nothing like Wilson's. In the background, House heard another voice, whiny and female. "Is that the telemarketer again? I told them to take us off the list."

House fumbled to hang up. He hit several wrong buttons before succeeding, heart nearly beating through his sternum. His hands dropped to his lap, prompting another bolt of pain to throb in his thigh, and, all at once, he felt consumed by dread, a gripping fear of abandonment. He couldn't recall another moment in his life when he wanted to be found so desperately.

Fear clouded his head, and he tried to dial again, Cuddy's number this time. When a voice sounded from the other end, House had no doubts that he had misdialed. A child chirped a happy greeting into his ear. Another mad scramble to disconnect before he tried again. And again. By the fourth failed attempt, he mentally kicked himself for never programming either of their numbers into his speed dial. Instead he had amused himself by entering the numbers of an escort service--he had used it once--his favorite pizzeria, and Graceland's primary information line--he had labeled that one "God".

Letting his fingers glide over the buttons of the phone, he forced himself to concentrate as he counted out the numbers of each button and dialed one last time. He spoke each number out loud, all the while his mind pleading, _pick up, Cuddy, pick up._ He rocked in his seat, one hand gripping his thigh, the other locked around the phone. _For the love of God, pick up._

"Hello," said a woman's voice. Hope tried to weasel its way through his chest, but House didn't trust his own ears.

"Hello? Cuddy?" His voice cracked on her name.

"I'm sorry, sir. I think you have the wrong number."

The line disconnected. With a strangled, helpless noise, receiver still held to his ear, House doubled over himself, his forehead falling to his knees. The only sound he heard was his own ragged breaths until an unending series of rapid beeps invaded his ear, and he reared up, twisting his upper body and drawing his arm back. A low growl ground out of him as he hurled the phone towards the wall, where it connected and fell to the floor, the crack of its plastic failing to satisfy him.


	9. Chapter 9

Cuddy paused mid-step in the middle of her office holding a small bunch of folders as Wilson rushed into her office, his lab coat fluttering behind him, his wide eyes cluing her in to the reason for his sudden arrival before he ever opened his mouth.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Wilson pointed to the folders in her hands. "Are you, uh, busy?"

"Meeting. Is House all right?"

Wilson shifted his feet. He looked like a child with a full bladder. He started chattering. "Shit, the board meeting. I forgot all about it. Shit."

Cuddy's face was serious. She stepped close to him. "Wilson, is House okay?"

Wilson spoke with the speed of a professional auctioneer and rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. I didn't have time to stop by his place before work, so I've been calling periodically for the last few hours," he said. She stayed quiet and let him continue. "I must have called eight times. He never picked up. At first, I thought maybe couldn't reach the phone in time or maybe he finally rediscovered the shower. But he's not busy enough to miss that many calls and he doesn't have the willpower to ignore it for that long."

Cuddy nodded her head in agreement.

"I keep thinking that he's, uh, downed all his Vicodin." He paced a tiny path back and forth near the door, running a hand through his hair. "Or his alcohol, and he's _passed out_ somewhere--"

Images reeled through her head as he rambled--House half-conscious on his floor, too far away to reach the phone, an empty pill bottle in his hand, his eyelids permanently closing. Wilson had called her last Christmas, after he had found House in his own vomit with a vial of stolen pills, and now she was not only driven by an urge to make sure House was all right, but also by the desire to relieve Wilson of his self-perceived obligation to share the weight of House's burdens. It was possible, however, that both of them were overreacting, that perhaps House had fallen asleep or had crashed on the couch with a pair of headphones over his ears. Despite that, she was hesitant to send Wilson off to a repeat of the previous Christmas and she could not rid herself of the need to see personal proof House's safety.

Cuddy was torn from her thoughts by Wilson's voice. "Maybe I should, um, try one more time."

"No, I'll do it," she said, throwing her folders onto the chair and picking up the phone to dial. She let the machine answer before she hung up, not bothering with a message, and circled the room for her purse, leaving her folders abandoned on the chair.

"I need to see if he's--if he's--" She hesitated, and looking for another word other than the worst one. _If he's hurt. If he's dead._ "--all right."

"You shouldn't miss the meeting," he said, not insistently and with a reluctant tone of politeness.

"The meeting," she said, groaning and turning back from the door. "No, it's okay. I'll reschedule." She returned to the phone and informed Dr. Eastman, another board member, that she couldn't attend the meeting due to a medical emergency and it would have to be rescheduled. He assured her that she would receive a memo with a revised date and time. She sighed as she replaced the phone in its cradle and looked to Wilson. "Go home, Wilson. Let me take care of this. I'll call you as soon as I can." Her voice sounded weak. Her fingers fumbled with the straps of her purse as she strung it higher onto her shoulder. She walked on unsteady legs from her office, Wilson following her.

They parted ways in the lobby. She headed to the parking lot, upping her pace as she left the building, her car key already out in her hand.


	10. Chapter 10

Cuddy held the cell phone to her ear as she sped through a zigzag of side streets to House's apartment. She had already left three messages, each more anxious than the last.

After Cuddy's first visit, Wilson had begrudgingly copied his key to House's apartment, which had taken up residence on her own key ring. Her fingers had trouble finding it, then tried twice to slip it into the keyhole.

"Okay," she spoke to herself. "Open the door. Let him know you're there." She peeked into the room. "House?"

A groan, scratchy and muffled, came from the couch.

She stepped inside. "Are you--" The crunch of plastic beneath her shoe halted her speech. She bent down to pick up the remains of a cordless phone. She turned it in her hands, inspecting it. The digital panel was cracked and it was missing its battery. Pieces of the plastic casing had broken off and scattered over the floor. He was lucky he hadn't put it through a window. "What happened to the phone?"

He raised his face from a pillow. "Why are you here?" He sounded resigned, his tone flat.

"You didn't answer your phone. Wilson called. I just wanted to make sure you were--"

"I'm fine."

"So fine you thought your phone was a baseball?"

"Maybe I didn't want you bothering me."

"Right. Good idea. Cutting off communication wouldn't make us worry."

"I'm fine."

She stood beside the couch, placing the damaged phone near its base, and studied him. He wore the same clothes he had worn during her last visit. He'd added a pair of mismatching socks.

After a long pause, he spoke again, softer, self-loathing in his voice. "I misdialed. Four fucking times." He paused again, covering his face with his hands before muttering, "I lost my Vicodin."

"And you were trying to reach...the hospital pharmacy?"

House tossed the pillow into the corner of the couch. "The pharmacy. You. Wilson. Anyone with a drug connection."

"You keep your Vicodin on you. At all times. How could you lose it?"

"My pajamas don't have pockets," he said, pausing to sigh. "You'd be much more helpful if you actually _looked_ for it. Lecture me all you want after that."

Cuddy watched both of his hands massage his thigh as he bent forward. "Any nausea?" she asked. "Withdrawal?" She bent, sifting through loose papers and journals strewn over the coffee table.

He shook his head.

She scanned the piano, the desk, bookshelves, glanced in empty mugs and glasses in case he'd dropped it there by accident. She peeked under the tables, swept her fingers under the couch. Nothing. As she stood, however, a hint of orange on the kitchen floor caught her eye and she turned, spied the vial beneath the table in the center of the room, and retrieved it.

As she returned to the living room, she said, "It was on the kitchen floor, under the table. It must have rolled there." She uncapped the vial, turned a pill onto her palm, and transferred it to his, watching him tip it into his mouth as he fell back against the cushions. "I'll put it on the end table, the right one," she told him and placed the vial.

He nodded. "You could leave now."

Cuddy looked at him, his body slumped on the couch, and she felt a pulling desire to take care of him, to do something for him, no matter how much he resisted. She remembered her own words to Wilson. _He'll need our help whether he wants it or not_. House, she assumed, would undoubtedly camp out on the couch all night, _maybe_ get up for a glass of water. He hadn't showered in days, but, after the last bathroom experience, she wasn't about to force him under the spray, strip him of any real dignity he had left. She could, however, nourish him, feed him; she seriously doubted that House had eaten much of anything over the last several days--she had found no used plates in the sink--and she had never known House to refuse a free meal. In silence, she gathered some mugs on her way to the kitchen.

"It really wasn't a suggestion," House called after her, irritation creeping into his tone.

She ignored the remark. "Have you eaten anything?"

"Well, this one time I had a--"

"So, no," she said, pulling open the fridge. "Do you have anything in here besides beer and strawberry jam?"

"Mustard," he recalled. "Cold cuts, but I wouldn't use those. Milk. Not sure I would use that either. Eggs. I'm pretty sure they're okay, but you can't have any. I've adopted a no-sharing policy."

She had one ear tuned into his rambling as she opened the freezer. A pound of ground beef hid in the corner. She may be able to do something with that, closing the freezer to shuffle through the pantry, discovering an array of canned goods: tuna, peanut butter, tomato sauce, whole potatoes, green beans, kidney beans, and several varieties of condensed soup. Cuddy tilted her head, a grin spreading across her face, and walked to the counter with the cans of tomato sauce and kidney beans, then returned to the freezer for the beef.

"This will be all for you," she assured him.

Cuddy worked in the quiet of the apartment, scouting out the cupboards for a stock pot. Every few minutes, she leaned into the doorway to check on House, who had stretched out onto the couch, his head tipped back against the armrest. With a frown, she wondered if this was how he passed the time and, as she browned the beef, her mind buzzed with ways to engage him--music, audio books, sports radio broadcasts.

Later, as she pulled a bowl from the cabinet, she heard him shout, "There better not be any dishes in the sink when you're finished."

She grinned and poured a full bowl of chili, thick and hearty. After storing the leftovers in the fridge, she took the bowl into the living room and set it on the coffee table. "This is hot, so be careful."

House sniffed the air. "What is it? Not some prissy bowl of rabbit food."

"Chili. Very manly."

"How do I know you haven't poisoned it?"

"Just eat it."

She retreated to the kitchen to wash the dirty pot. When she turned toward the doorway, towel still in her hands, she saw House, who was leaning forward, his face close to the bowl, and shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth. When the spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, his face fell in a frown, and a soft smile spread over her mouth. She contemplated dishing out another helping, but she figured she should ration it for the next evening.

She tidied his kitchen and, around eight o'clock, slipped out of the apartment as he snored softly and, when she returned the following evening, bearing a new phone, two numbers already programmed into the speed dial, he was standing near the sink, wiping his face on the cuff of his long sleeve t-shirt, different from her previous visits. His hair was fluffy, grease gone. She was glad he couldn't see her; he would have mocked her smile.

"Hey, I brought you a new phone," she said as she swapped the old phone for the new one, then placed the receiver in his hand. "Speed dial's set up. All your drug connections right at your fingertips. No dialing necessary."

He pressed speed dial one and tilted his head, listening to the ringing coming from her purse. She scrambled to find the phone and silence it.

"You're number one? A little narcissistic of you," he said.

Cuddy bit her bottom lip and drew a breath before replying, "Alphabetical order." She headed toward the fridge. "I was hoping you'd still have some leftovers. I didn't have dinner yet."

He shuffled his foot, dropping his head. "I threw it out. It was terrible. Made me sick."

She grinned. The dirty bowl in the sink and the orange stain on his t-shirt said otherwise. "I'll just have to find another way to poison you."

"Lasagna sounds like a good way to go."

She spun on her heel and headed towards the door.

He called after the sound of her heels. "Just sayin'."

Even though he couldn't see it, she smirked at him over her shoulder as she pulled open the door.


	11. Chapter 11

Cuddy's retreating heels clicked softly in the hall before his door fell shut. A gust of cool air hit the back of House's neck, making him shiver.

With orders from his ophthalmologist, she had taken away his pressure patches and discontinued his antibiotics. When she had relayed the news, he had heard a smile in her voice for the first time in days. "No infections. All of the redness is gone. Both corneas are healing well." She had voiced the clinical facts, but her unspoken hopes had laced her inflection--hope for a full recovery, for regained vision, for charged, encoded gazes across her office, for their lives as they were five weeks ago. He had even heard those hopes in happy sighs between sentences. He had felt them on her fingertips when her hands had combed through his hair, rearranging spiky strands mussed by the elastic of the patches.

He would have ridiculed her for her optimism if his throat had relaxed enough for him to speak, but he had been struck--stunned--by the unexpected and intimate proximity of her as she had happily _caressed_ his head with a tenderness he had nearly forgotten. One of her legs had hugged his hip, the other she had planted between his thighs, and she had shifted so close to him that he had _smelled_ her. When she had leaned forward for a look at his face, her body had pressed lightly against his chest, his shoulders, and her leg--God help him--had rubbed briefly against his groin. It had taken every measure of his self-control to hold his body still, his hands pressed flat to the leather on either side of him. He had replied to her questions with mute head-shakes or nods, struggling to quell the erection building in his roomy pajama pants. He had felt his ears burn hot with embarrassment, completely convinced that she had, at some point, taken notice, but her voice had never wavered in its poorly-masked cheeriness. No awkward discomfort had ever surfaced in her tone. She had never spoken any humiliating remarks, no sly innuendos. House was certain that either she _somehow_ hadn't noticed or she _had_ noticed, but spared him the embarrassment. When she had finally eased off the couch to stand, House had scrambled--fuck nonchalance--to pull the blanket across his lap, managing to croak out a "Bye" as she'd left.

Now, his self-control collapsed and clumsy fingers fumbled with the tie of his pants, pushed the fabric away from his hips to reach into his boxer-briefs and pull himself out, hot and semi-hard. He gripped himself, tipping his head back and moaning softly to the dark, black ceiling. His stomach muscles tightened, raising his hips and pushing his penis into his fist as he tried to work himself to a full erection with firm, steady strokes. He hadn't done this in _weeks_ and his body already strained for release, a heavy ache building at the base of his balls. Sounds circled his ears--his own quiet sighs and harsh breaths, the groaning of the leather cushions--and House tried to block the noise, channeling his attention to the friction of his own touch.

 _This_ would relax him, he thought. _Finally_ , he would get some form of stress relief, a distraction from the blank, black _nothingness_ forced upon him, swapped for images of feminine contours and smooth skin flushed pink. If he worked himself up into a tight coil-spring of physical tension and let the spring release, white camera-flash spots behind his eyelids, he would wilt into the couch cushions, sated with close-to-blissful exhaustion, something approaching peace. _Mindless, oblivious peace._

Sighing deeply, House tightened his grip, pumping faster when he felt his shaft harden, and tried to conjure images to speed up the process. Usually, he would shut his eyes and ears against all external stimuli and concentrate on the internal ones--recreated experiences, rolling in his head like a silent movie reel, and snapshots of women he had been with, ones he had loved. He jerked off to memories of Stacy most often, more than he would ever admit to anyone. Full-body images, his mind's eye perusing tan summer skin as if his hands, his lips, were touching her. He always saw her face, lips parted and drawing breath, long lashes sweeping downward, fluttering when he entered her. His imagination recalled the curve of her body beneath him, breasts rising, legs curling around his hips to push him forward and fill her deeply, or the slope of her spine, his own hands smoothing down her back, over her ass, as he watched, transfixed and breathless, as he slid into her, out of her, wet and glistening with the both of them.

Occasionally, he masturbated to thoughts of Cuddy, especially after a stressful, frustrating day at work, his mind automatically recalling tight, low-cut, cock-teasing tops, lacy thongs beneath skirts that fit like a second skin. He would see _her_ face, too, hovering close enough to kiss her, the warm tones of her office offsetting her eyes, bold, assertive, sometimes affectionate, but always stunning.

Now, with her scent still in his nose, he tried to center his mind on Cuddy as his hand worked himself with rough strokes, but the image of her swam in and out of focus, fuzzy and dim. House searched his memory, struggling to recall the curves of her breasts, her hips, the shape of her legs, spread open to reveal the most intimate part of her. Instead generic images materialized in his head and he shook his head as if to clear it, start over, but nothing sharpened. His grip loosened, his hand slowed, and he moaned, frustrated.

He tried to switch gears, revert to thoughts of Stacy. He had carried her image for years, but now it dissolved, replaced with cookie-cutter shapes of a female body--nameless, unfamiliar, cold. Distress abated his arousal and his hand fell away from penis, already softening. He rammed his head against the couch, trying to envision Stacy's eyes, her lips, the lines of her body, but the features blurred, indistinct. He whispered her name aloud as if the words would act as an incantation and deliver clear, accurate images. Nothing. He imagined nothing but the same mismatched, generic woman. House's hands covered his face, scrubbing at his head as though he could clear the image away. A strained laugh burst through the space between his fingers. Jesus, he _knew_ her. Stacy had been _his_ for _five years_. He _knew_ her. _Fuck_ , he knew her. He had seen Cuddy, for Christ's sake, _every day_ , ogled her ass, her cleavage. _Fuck._

He punched at the cushion and roughly tucked himself back into his pants. In so many ways, his body had already failed him, but his guts twisted and he felt sick with the realization that his mind and his store of visual memories were following suit. He searched for the blanket and found it half-tucked between the cushions. House hugged it to himself, inhaling Cuddy's lingering scent, wishing he could match that smell with her face. Sorrow and anger pressed heavily on his chest as he curled the blanket around himself, his nose buried in the fabric.


	12. Chapter 12

The following morning, when Cuddy stepped into House's apartment, he was pulling a t-shirt over his head, his hair damp and unruly. White streaks of deodorant marked the underarms of the shirt. "You showered. And _shaved_ ," she said, deciding not to mention the hair he had missed below his jaw line. "But you're wearing dirty clothes. Inside out. That kind of voids the shower, don't you think?"

"Tell me, Cuddy, how I'm supposed to separate my whites and my colors when I can't tell the difference? As much as it might amuse _you_ , I'd rather not go around looking like a pink marshmallow peep."

" _You_ separate your laundry? Wow, never pegged you as the type."

"When you're raised in a Marine household, you learn to separate laundry." He sat heavily on the couch, pulling on a mismatching pair of socks, both tinged brown with dirt.

Cuddy peered at him, leaning forward to peek down the back of his jeans. "Please tell me your underwear isn't turned inside out, too."

His face scrunched with mock-thought. When he spoke, he sounded as though he were choosing his words carefully. "Sure. I guess I could say that. My underwear is definitely _not_ turned inside out."

"You _guess_? You never guess. What aren't you telling me?"

"Oh, well, there's a lot I'm not telling you."

"Enlighten me."

He tilted his head and drew a deep breath. "I'm not so sure you want me to do that."

"I do." She waited for him to speak; he didn't. "House, very little of what you say can shock me anymore."

"Fine," he relented. "But remember, you asked."

"Yes, I brought this on myself."

His feet slid against the floor, his fingers scratched the top of his head before he admitted, "I'm not _wearing_ any underwear."

Cuddy shook her head, unsure if she had heard correctly. "What?"

"You know, going commando, free-balling it."

She immediately raised both hands, forgetting he couldn't see her. "Okay, all right. That's more than I ever needed to know."

"Like I said, you asked."

She sighed, looking at him for a moment before she tugged on his sleeve, urging him to stand. "Come on," she said, dragging him to his bedroom to find a mountain of clothes piled in one corner.

"Cuddy," he gasped, pretending to be scandalized. "Trying to take advantage of the easy access? Saucy woman."

She ignored him as she dug through his closet, unearthed a laundry basket, and filled it with his clothes. "Sorry to disappoint." She shoved the basket against his chest. "Today just became laundry day. We're going to my house."

When they reached her house, Cuddy lugged the basket to the door and into her living room as House followed her, pinching the fabric of her shirt. She dumped the clothes onto the floor.

House hovered behind her. "Couldn't we do something more fun?"

She turned to face him, laying one hand on his chest. "House?"

"Yeah?"

"I need you to strip."

His mouth fell open, but he was silent for several seconds. "Like that." He pointed in her direction; his aim missed her face by a few inches. "That's _exactly_ the kind of fun I had in mind. Are you going to boss me around? Tie me up? You don't really need a blindfold, since--"

"If I'm going to wash all these clothes, I might as well include the ones you're wearing. So," she said, playfully lowering her voice to tease him, "get in the bathroom and strip."

"Do you expect me to go the rest of the day in the buff, because that's not exactly fair?"

She grinned. "Take this," she replied, thrusting a garment against him.

He fingered the fabric. "What's this?"

"It's your robe. I took it from your closet."

"Oh. Too bad. You would have liked the show." He turned away, tossing the robe over one shoulder and leaving his hands free to help him navigate through her house.

"And House?" she called after him. He stopped, turning his head so she glimpsed his profile. "Come back without that robe on and I'll make sure the photographs circulate throughout the hospital."

"You would not," he replied, sounding confident and unworried.

"My digital camera is charged and ready to go," she lied.

Before he faced away from her to continue down the hall, he grinned softly. "Which door is the bathroom?"

"Only door on the right."

When House returned, he maneuvered his way to the couch, throwing his balled-up clothes onto the floor as he passed. She had already separated most of his clothes, creating piles according to color and water temperature. A smile spread as she watched him flop onto her couch, wrapped in his robe, his bare feet propped on her coffee table. He took on the appearance of a regular fixture in her home, and, in that moment, her heart pumped nothing but affection for him.

"There's some coffee for you on the end table to your right," she told him. She hoped the gesture would prolong his mood. He had been playful throughout the morning. He hadn't expressed this side of himself since the accident.

He wiggled his toes and puffed his cheeks before he shifted and carefully reached for the mug. His index finger dipped cautiously into the beverage, testing its temperature, and, apparently satisfied, sipped at it.

"You owe me, you know. I don't play the domestic part for just anyone. Making you coffee, digging through your dirty underwear."

"None of which I asked you to do, by the way. But, if you want, I could dig through your underwear and we could call it even."

She turned sharply, shaking her head, her mouth open, but still wearing her smile.

He pressed on before she could volley. "And don't act like it's a big deal," he said. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

She dropped her head to scan the floor, and then, her smile growing impossibly wide, plucked a pair of boxers from one of the piles. She let a laugh ring out into the room. "Well, I've _cert_ ainly never seen _these_ before."

"What?" House sat straight, setting the mug back on the end table. "You've never seen what?"

" _Red_ boxers? With little _hearts_ on the waistband?" She staged a girlish giggle. "Oh, Dr. House." Cuddy laughed when House's face fell, going a little pale. She scooted away, danced over the piles of clothes as House suddenly heaved himself off the couch and tried to reach her, his arms waving wildly. Circling the coffee table, she teased, "Are these an old souvenir? Or do you secretly like to indulge in whimsical, cute underwear?"

House stopped on the opposite side of the table. He gritted through clenched teeth, "They're comfortable."

"And pretty."

"Not as _pretty_ ," he mocked, "as half of your underwear. And, by pretty, I mean slutty."

"Mine is supposed to be pretty. Pretty doesn't embarrass me, but it embarrasses you."

House chewed on his lip and sighed. Cuddy's cheeks started to ache from her smile. He released another hefty sigh. "Not a _word_ , Cuddy. Not to Wilson. Not to your secretary. Not to _any_ of the nurses."

She approached him, still holding his boxers by the waistband, and studied his face, which had dropped his cock-sure façade and exposed his insecurities, all because of a cute pair of underwear. She knew, of course, that she would never let this secret leave this room. A part of her felt privileged to possess it, such strangely intimate knowledge. She enjoyed making him squirm, however; the opportunity rarely presented itself. She leaned close to him, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Or what, House? You'll cc the entire hospital my underwear inventory?"

"Are you offering to let me catalogue it personally?"

A hearty laugh burst from her mouth, almost cartoon-like, exaggerated. She grinned to herself as she passed him, dropping the underwear into the basket and topping it with one of the clothes piles. When she spied his feet come to a stop next to her, she looked up at him and saw him reach through the air, trying to find her.

"Cuddy?"

She stood and stilled his hand, holding just his fingers with all of hers. "Hmm?"

"You're not going to...?"

Cuddy drew one side of his robe more securely over the other to cover his chest. "Not a word, House," she said, neither teasing nor insincere, as she untied his sash and retied it tighter around his waist. "Now stop trying to flash me and go sit down."

She caught sight of a grin, revealing a dimple in his right cheek, as he slowly spun around, navigated his way around the coffee table, and reclaimed his place on her couch.


	13. Chapter 13

That evening, following a make-shift dinner of Western omelets and toast, Cuddy stacked the last of his clean folded laundry in the basket, sitting beside House who busied himself with exploring beneath her coffee table, discovering magazines, books, a spare set of coasters. He still wore his robe, but he had added underwear--"Plain, grey, and _heartless_ , Cuddy, thank you."--and a pair of striped pajama pants. He had stolen a shirt from the folded pile, but it sat, still folded, on the arm of the couch. Cuddy looked over at him, smiling softly, as she spread several single, unmatched socks across the coffee table.

"How can you be missing so many socks?" she asked.

"Everybody loses socks. They get eaten by couches, accidentally left in driers, employed as a masturbation aid." He paused. "But not by me."

"Ugh. House."

"Or they're stolen and stashed for safekeeping by Deans of Medicine. Don't take the thick grey ones. I like those."

"If I wanted a memento of this experience, believe me, I'd be stealing something else, like those cute--"

" _Or_ they're used to gag annoying, blabby Deans of Medicine who don't know when to _shut_ up."

"Funny," she said, grinning, "this coming from a man who seems physically in _cap_ able of shutting up."

"I'm only vocal when I'm around you. You inspire it." He leaned over the arm of the couch, hand sweeping underneath the end table. When he sat back against the cushions, a chess piece--a black knight--lay in the palm of his hand. He shifted to face her and thrust his hand in her direction. "Is this a chess piece?" he asked. Then, without waiting for her answer, he said, surprised, "You have a chess board?"

She looked at the piece in his hand. "My dad taught me how to play when I was younger, before I left for college."

As she spoke, he slid the board from under the table, moving slowly to keep the pieces upright, and set it on the coffee table. Cuddy slid his unmatched socks to the edge of the table, making room for the board, and observed him as he tried to center each piece on its corresponding square.

She asked him hopefully, "Do you want to play?"

He still fussed with the pieces. "I'd be at a severe disadvantage. Wouldn't be fair."

"We could make it fair."

His brows furrowed. "How?"

"Well, when I was learning how to play, my dad taught me by playing blindfold chess. He said that if I learned the proper notations and could visualize the board, I'd become a better player." She centered the board on the table between them. "You know the notations, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but you still might want to move the pieces, just in case one of us forgets the layout of the board. Or _cheats_."

"I'm not going to cheat."

"I'll never be able to tell unless I can feel the board."

"And I'll never be satisfied unless I can win fair and square." She ignored his snort. "So, if you insist, I'll move the pieces and you can check my moves as often as you'd like."

"Well, I do insist."

Cuddy reached down to his waist, grinning at his quiet hitched breath, and untied the sash of his robe. "I need to borrow this," she said. "Do you trust me to tie it myself or would you like to do the honors?"

When he held out his hand, she laid the sash across his palm and turned her back to him.

As he fitted the sash around her head, covering her eyes, he puffed out a hard breath of air. "When I imagined this moment, it always involved less clothing." He knotted the sash at the back of her head and trailed his fingers down the nape of her neck. "We could play strip-blindfold chess."

"We _could_ ," she teased, turning back towards the board. "But you'd have to keep your hands to yourself. The payoff would hardly be worth it for you." She snuck one finger beneath the sash to peek at the board. "White's mine," she announced. "Prepare yourself for a humbling experience. Pawn to e4."

"King's Pawn? _That's_ how you plan to teach me some humility? Pretty sad. Pawn to e6."

Cuddy moved their pieces, keeping up with their quick volleys. "Pawn to d4," she said.

"Pawn to d5."

"Knight to c3."

He paused in thought. "Hmm. You're bringing out the big guns now. I could do that too, you know. Knight to f6."

" _Very_ original, although you might want to think of your own strategy soon. I hear it helps you win. Bishop to g5."

Their trash talk ceased in favor of rapid-fire moves, smugly capturing each other's pieces as the game progressed. House tapped one of the captured pieces on the table. "So," he said, breaking the lull in conversation. "Has anyone tried to fire me yet?"

Her eyebrows rose as she stumbled over her own thoughts. "What?" she stalled. House had been having such a good day. He had been playful, even a little cheerful. She couldn't ruin it. She _couldn't_. "No, of course not."

He raised his eyebrows. "I suspected some of those board members would have been all over it. It's a perfect chance to get rid of me. Bishop to d7."

Cuddy fought to shove thoughts of the impending meeting from her mind. "Pawn to a4. They know you're a valuable doctor. They wouldn't lobby to get rid of you," she said, privately congratulating herself for maintaining an even, neutral tone.

"If they _do_ try to fire me, all you have to do is wear that black blouse, the one that's _almost_ see-through, and those perverted old men will agree to anything. Queen to b4."

"Despite what you might think, House, I do not, in fact, choose my wardrobe for its brainwashing powers. Pawn to g4."

"Bishop to a4," he said, holding out his hand. "Gimme your pawn. It doesn't matter if your motives behind your fashion choices are innocent. The effects aren't and, as far as I'm concerned, that's what matters."

She scoffed. "My wardrobe has _no_ magical powers, I assure you."

"No? Well, go ahead. Prove your theory. I'll happily be your lab rat for ten minutes."

"I know how much you hate it when people state the obvious, but--"

"Come on, I've seen enough of your wardrobe to imagine an accurate picture. Describe some of the hotter numbers and I'll think about letting you win this game." He gestured toward the board.

"No. Pawn to f5. You lost one of your pawns. I am not going to let you trick me into feeding your fantasies."

"Come on, Cuddy, humor a blind cripple." She could imagine his pouting expression, his bottom lip thrust out before he drew it back to announce his next move. "And, pawn to f5. Revenge is sweet. Hand over your pawn."

She begrudgingly placed the piece into his hand. "Pawn to e6. And no."

"Bishop to e8. Just one sexy, low-cut blouse, one detailed description, and I'll let you capture another one of my pieces. I don't care if you _make up_ the details."

"I could capture your pieces all on my own. I don't need you to let me. Knight to f5." She pulled another of his pawns from the board and set her knight in its square, triumphant. "See?"

House sighed. "No, actually, but I get your point. What about your hair?"

"House."

"I'm not going to move again until you answer. _Really_ answer."

"I'll move for you."

"You said you wouldn't cheat. Come on, is it down? Curly?"

She rolled her eyes, huffing. She hated to reward his persistence, but she doubted he would give up. With a flat tone, she said simply, "Yes."

"Descriptions, Cuddy. I need more than just 'yes'."

Cuddy toyed with one of her captured pieces. "Listen, House, if you're horny, call a phone sex line. I'm not your personal--"

"Please."

Her hand froze on the chess piece. _Please? He'd said please? Sincerely?_ She lifted the sash over her head, letting it dangle in her hands as she stared at his face. His head hung between his shoulders. One hand kneaded his forehead. His Adam's apple bobbed with swallow after swallow. "You _know_ what my hair looks like."

He turned his face away from her.

"House, you know what _I_ look like." Her words were met with silence and a painful ache settled in the center of her chest.

He fingered one of the game pieces. His left leg bounced, shaking the cushion they shared. Finally, he sighed. "I can't...I never thought I'd forget how the twins looked in a push-up." He released a hitched laugh, shaking his head.

Cuddy closed her eyes, the ache in her chest constricting, tightening at the pain in his voice. She plucked the piece from his fingers and set it beside the others, then gently took his hand with both of hers, uncurling his fingers to open it.

He tried to jerk his hand away. "What are you doing? Cuddy, what are you--"

When she lifted his hand and guided his fingertips to her touch her cheek, he abruptly fell silent. His palm came to rest on her face, fingers curling behind her ear, and she held it in place, giving him a moment to absorb the texture of her skin. As his hand began to drift, fingertips almost caressing, she let her own fall to her lap and watched his eyes close, squeezed tightly shut.

House shifted to face her, drawing one bent leg onto the couch. Between lingering pauses, his hands moved over her face, cupping it, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. Slowly and deliberately, his fingers traced the shape of her ears, the line of her jaw, the slope of her nose. His breaths burst out of him, short and ragged, as his middle finger followed the arch of her eyebrow, doubling back against the grain so he could smooth the hair again.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, his voice breaking on the first word.

She was certain that her heart jerked inside of her, cracked with a hairline fracture, when the pads of his fingers pressed delicately over her eyes. Cuddy felt the desperation in his touch, his attempt to create an image of her that he could remember, and reached out for him, finding his knee. His breath hitched and his arm twitched, forcing his fingers to skip across the skin of her eyelids. His index finger trembled as it skirted through the fan of her eyelashes and dropped to rest against the side of her nose. One whole hand slid over her jaw to cup her face. The other mimicked the first, but continued past her ear and into her hair, combing through it to curve around the back of her head and pull her forward. A soft, strangled sob broke past his lips as he brought their foreheads together, hands refusing to still completely.

Without asking, her arms slid over his shoulders and curled around his back. "Oh, God, House, come here," she breathed, drawing him against her without a fight. His head fell to her shoulder, his face pressed into the side of her neck. He dropped his hands from her face to the cushion. She reached for them and guided them back to her body, over her thighs, her stomach, her ribs. "Feel the rest," she whispered, dragging his hands over her breasts and down her sides.

House gasped broken sounds into her neck, his lips hot and dry against her skin. His arms wrapped around her to hug her to him, permitting her to see-- _feel_ \--the bottled frustration, the shame, and vulnerability as his fingers pressed hard against her back, fitting between vertebrae, gripping shoulder blades. She held him for as long as he let her, stroking a hand through his hair before he pulled away, struggling to draw deep breaths.

As a long, silent moment passed, he slowly scooted away from her, returning to face the game board, his hands twisting in his lap. When he spoke again, his voice was strained and quiet. "Whose turn is it?"

She swallowed, letting her hand linger on his back. "Yours."

House nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. Minutes passed. He never announced his next move and their game went unfinished.

By the time they climbed into her car, heading for House's apartment, House had thanked her.


	14. Chapter 14

After that evening with Cuddy, House fell into bed, angry and ashamed of himself and, over the following days, his moods and emotions shifted unpredictably, as unstable as weather patterns. Harmless words and simple, well-meaning actions set him off, and he would feel rage spin inside his head like a tornado. Innocent conversations escalated into red-faced shouting matches. He would conclude most nights face-down on the couch, or his bed, drowning in darkness and muffling his own curses and screams into a pillow.

The following Saturday, House reclined comfortably on his couch, ear turned to a radio broadcast of the Phillies game, when Wilson let himself into the apartment. Wilson shuffled toward the couch, asking without a greeting, "What's the score? It was four to three when I left."

"Cubs are up, now, six to three. Soriano hit a two-run double down the right field line."

"Please tell me they pulled Moyer."

"You just missed it." House dipped his hand into a bag of pretzels and munched with his mouth full. "We're still on a commercial break." House felt the couch sink beside him with Wilson's weight.

"Oh, well, in that case, I just got your mail." Wilson paused. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

House's hand stopped en route to his mouth. He lowered the pretzel, setting his jaw, trying to swallow against the fury racing up his throat. Wilson apparently interpreted his silence as consent and tore open an envelope.

"Junk mail," he said casually. "Pre-approved for an American Express card." He ripped open another piece of mail. "Oh, this one looks like your electric bill. It's pretty low, only--"

House's hand shot out, gathering all of the envelopes he found and ripped them into pieces. "Of course it's low!" he shouted. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't been turning on a lot of _lights_ lately!"

The weight lifted from the couch and suddenly Wilson's voice was farther away. "Well, _I_ have. Some of us still need--"

With a hard flick of his wrist, House threw the torn bills and mail in Wilson's direction. "Here! You take it! You pay for it!" As fast as he could manage, he walked to the door, found the knob, and pulled it open. "And get the _hell_ out of my house!" House refused to budge until he heard Wilson stalk past him and into the hall.

Later, House retaliated against the plaguing feeling of helplessness and attempted to reassert some of his independence. He dug through his toolbox, uncovering some wood glue--he had tested its consistency with his fingers--and a full sheet of sandpaper, which he carried to the bathroom. He urinated, mindful of where he stood to ensure a true aim, and marked the location of his feet on the floor with strips of sandpaper, gluing them into place. When he visited the bathroom in the middle of the night and heard the stream hit the water, he grinned.

His mood remained light until Wednesday. Cuddy arrived late in the evening to load his freezer with microwave dinners. He leaned against the kitchen counter as she told him about downloadable podcasts from the New England Journal of Medicine.

Her voice flitted around the room, following her as she walked from the counter to the refrigerator. "I forgot to write down the URL, but I'll bring it to you--"

House furrowed his brows when she paused. Before he realized she was standing in front of him, her hands were unbuttoning his shirt. His body stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"Your buttons aren't aligned right. You missed a buttonhole near the top."

House stepped away from her, backing hard into the stove. A burner knob dug painfully into his tailbone, but he ignored it. "I could button my own shirt."

"I know. You just missed a--"

"I'd appreciate it, _Cuddy_ , if you didn't treat me as your stand-in kid. I'm not a _fucking_ three-year-old!"

He knew the words would hurt her, but, at that moment, he didn't care. He stayed in the kitchen as she left, trying to hide a sniffle on her way to the door.

The day only got worse when he received a phone call from Cameron, her voice heavy with concern but forcing politeness, attempting pleasantries and small talk. He worked hard throughout the entire conversation to get her off the phone, and when she mentioned the benefits of a seeing-eye dog, he hung up on her. The nearest coffee mug, thankfully empty, flew from his hand and shattered inside his fireplace.

He brooded until the following morning when Cuddy returned, cleaned up the ceramic shards without comment, and brought him a fresh cup of coffee. He felt her wordlessly settle close to him on the couch and, calmed by the scent of her perfume and her nearby warmth, drew deep breaths between sips of coffee. She didn't leave until the coffee pot was empty, undoubtedly late for work.

His moodiness hardly improved as time passed. He had become aware of his dwindling sick leave and had started a countdown. _Thirty-five days until I lose my job. Twenty days until I lose my job._ As the number closed in on zero, a sinking, terrifying feeling settled in his gut that, despite his fleeting moments of contentment, he couldn't quite shake.


	15. Chapter 15

Cuddy arrived first for the board meeting, taking a seat at the end of the table. Leftover traces of Pledge hung in the air as she set the meeting agenda on the table's shiny surface. Two items were listed. First, the evaluation and possible termination of the employment of Dr. Gregory House. Second, the assessment of custodial safety measures. Cuddy felt her stomach shift.

She comforted herself with the knowledge that she had a foolproof plan of action that would trump any complaints board members dared to lodge against House. From a legal standpoint, the plan was solid, but she still felt sweat coating her palms as board members filtered through the double doors behind her. Suddenly, Wilson appeared beside her, throwing himself into an adjacent seat.

He slapped the agenda on the table, leaning his face close to hers to hiss under his breath, "Did you see this?"

"I've got it taken care of."

His eyes smoldered with skepticism as he peered at her.

"I promise," she assured him. "Just let me handle it."

As the meeting got underway, Cuddy straightened in her seat, conscious to exude an air of confidence and authority. She cleared her throat. "Okay," she said, forcing a polite smile. "First order of business." Wilson's leg bounced beneath the table. Board members shifted in their seats. Cuddy read from the agenda, "The evaluation and possible termination of the employment of Dr. Gregory House. This topic is now open for discussion."

Several board members dropped their eyes to the table. Silence filled the space.

Cuddy, still forcing a smile, took a breath and cut the silence. "As I'm sure you're aware, Dr. House was the victim of a chemical accident and is currently being treated for vision problems."

Dr. O'Brien, who sat across the table from Wilson, piped up loudly, "Don't dress it up with fancy language. He's blind."

"Dr. House has been undergoing a series of examinations and treatments that have yet to yield a final prognosis." Cuddy wiped her hands on her skirt.

O'Brien pressed on. "It's obvious that his ability to perform the duties of his job, the ones he chooses to do in the first place, has been compromised."

"The permanence of his condition is still uncertain and--"

"And he won't be able to keep up to date with practices in medical advancements. And, more importantly, he won't be able to diagnose and treat anyone if he can't see films, test results, patients."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wilson's back arch like an angry cat's. Discreetly, she threw him a look, pleading with him to stay silent. He didn't.

"Sure," Wilson said. "It'll take some adjusting, but blind people learn to operate as fully functioning members of society. They're teachers, lawyers--"

"This is House!" O'Brien shouted, waving his hands. "He's incapable of adjusting unless it suits him. He's _already_ a dysfunctional doctor at this hospital. This will make him even _more_ impossible to deal with."

"We're not talking about House's people skills here," Wilson countered.

"Right," said another doctor--Eastman. "We're talking about his physical ability to perform his job, currently and in the future. Don't let your personal feelings about this get in the way. We have to think of the good of the hospital, of the patients."

Cuddy opened her mouth to reply, seeing a window to segue into her plan, but Wilson beat her to it.

"This isn't about camaraderie," he insisted, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. "This is about giving one of _your_ colleagues a fair chance to recover and keep his job. Do you feel it would be acceptable to fire _you_ , Dr. O'Brien, if you were in, say, a car accident before you could return to work?"

"That's--"

"Different? No. This was an accident. You can't fire a doctor based on your dislike for him, just because you want to."

"Yes, it was an accident, and it's unfortunate, especially for House," said Dr. Eastman. "But you can't ignore the fact that it will be more difficult for him to work than it already is. We're here to cater to patients, not employees."

As Wilson's mouth opened for a rebuttal, Cuddy dug her heel into his foot, warning him not to continue. She addressed the entire table. "Regardless, Dr. House is a tenured employee at this hospital. He has the right to execute his sick leave in order to recover from any physical incapacitation and keep his job. Due to the nature of the accident, he also has the right to take legal action if this board approved his termination."

O'Brien again. "So you're choosing to keep him based on a legality?"

"Yes," Cuddy replied firmly.

"You can't stall forever," O'Brien said bitterly.

"The legal department has advised me to urge the board to postpone this matter until Dr. House's sick leave expires. I move to postpone this vote to a later date to be determined."

She scanned the table. Wilson raised his eyebrows, looking impressed as the motion passed. Cuddy drew a deep breath, relieved, and announced, "Moving to the next order of business."

The rest of the meeting commenced without conflict and, as she bolted from the board room, Wilson kept pace beside her.

"Great plan," he said.

"It bought us some time. Unless we can cure blindness in less than a month and get House back to work, I doubt the next meeting will go as well." She descended the stairs, heading for her office.

"So, let's use the time we have," Wilson suggested. "We can't cure blindness, but it'll be easy enough to prove that House is still capable of diagnosing patients." He paused to open the door to her office. "Get House's name on file as the attending physician and the board has no legitimate cause to fire him."

Cuddy sat behind her desk, eyeing him. "The thing about being an attending physician is that you should _attend_."

"House hardly ever _attends_. He's diagnosed patients from another state, for crying out loud. He can handle diagnosing a patient from his living room."

She sighed. Wilson was right; House usually met with patients as a last-ditch effort, when all else failed. It would be difficult for the board to argue with paperwork--recorded proof of House's competency. Despite a pang of reluctance, she swiveled her chair and logged on to the hospital's database, searching for recently admitted patients. Wilson waited on the opposite side of her desk. "There's nothing that would interest him," she said.

"It doesn't have to interest him. Give him anything."

She glanced up at Wilson, tilting her head. "He's not an idiot. He already suspects the board is looking to fire him. If it's not a real case, he'll see right through it."

"He'll jump at the chance to use his brain. You could probably get him to do clinic hours if it gave him the chance to solve a puzzle right now."

She frowned. "I doubt it. His pride didn't disappear with his vision." She opened the file of one of her own clinic patients. That morning, Cuddy had admitted her when she'd passed out and went into heart failure. Combined with the patient's other symptoms, Cuddy had suspected Hashimoto's disease and she had ordered a nurse to draw blood and run a hormone panel. She printed the file. "You better hope this works," she said, brushing past Wilson and out of her office, file in hand.

After she managed to round up House's team from their separate corners of the hospital, she met with them in House's office, slapping the file on the conference room table. Three pairs of eyes stared at it.

"What's this?" asked Chase.

"I thought we weren't taking new cases," Cameron said.

Foreman looked up at her, raised his eyebrow, and folded his hands on the table, waiting.

"You're not," Cuddy said, addressing the three of them. "House is, and I need you to call him and get a diagnosis. Treat this as if he's milling around the office instead of his living room."

"Why?" Chase sounded reluctant.

"I need him as the attendee on record. The board thinks he can't do his job."

Cameron opened the file and scanned it, reading symptoms aloud. "Prolonged menstrual period. Fatigue. Dry skin. Hoarse voice. Heart failure." She raised her face to Cuddy. "You ordered a hormone panel and blood test?"

"Don't tell him that," Cuddy said, rubbing her hand over her forehead. "He'll order them, too, but just use these results."

"You're thinking it's a thyroid problem?" Foreman finally spoke up, entirely focused on the medicine.

"Wait, you want us to _lie_ to him?" Cameron asked, predictably stuck on the ethics of the situation.

Cuddy's hands went to her hips as she sighed. "Yes. Lie to him."

"I don't know if you realize it, but House's built-in polygraph doesn't just _vanish_ because his eyesight's gone." Chase pointed out. "And he'll lash out at us, not you."

"Listen, I don't care what you do. I don't care what you say, as long as you pull a diagnosis out of him." She strode to the door, pulling it open. "Keep me updated." As she exited the room, she felt sick, disgusted with herself, and escaped to the nearest bathroom to lock herself in a stall until the feeling faded.


	16. Chapter 16

"Cuddy!"

At her desk, Cuddy jumped and her pen cut a jagged blue streak across the bottom of her letterhead. She raised her eyes to find House standing just inside her office, his chest already heaving with anger. He tilted his head, standing very still and clearly listening for her. His nostrils flared as if he were trying to sniff her out like a foxhound.

" _Cuddy_!" He raised the volume of his voice several decibels.

She considered ignoring him, pretending that she wasn't actually there in hopes that he would give up and leave. It occurred to her, however, that he would undoubtedly search the hospital, furiously harassing and recruiting anyone he could find to track her down, and she felt it was best if he released his rage on her, in her office, where she could contain it.

"Don't play dead with me, Cuddy. I can _smell_ you hiding." His fist clenched around the handle of his cane.

She stood up, pushing her chair from her desk. His head immediately swung in the direction of the sound. "You cannot. How did you get here? Did you take a cab?"

"Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you--" He pointed and his aim landed about a foot shy of her. "--are even more incompetent than I imagined."

She walked to the side of her desk, keeping her fingers on the surface, grounding herself. She tried to sound dismissive. "What are you talking about?"

"And those three stooges. They've wasted the last few years of their lives learning _nothing_ , apparently. If they can't recognize a case of Hashimoto's Thyroiditis by now, then--"

"It was an odd presentation."

"It was a textbook presentation! You saw the blood tests, the hormone levels. High cholesterol enlarged the heart and caused the heart failure. The immune system damaged the thyroid gland, it inflamed, and caused it to be underactive, which accounted for all the other symptoms. Dry skin, hoarse voice, menorrhagia, cold sensitivity-- _every_ thing. You're an endocrinologist for Christ's sake! You shouldn't need me to diagnose this in the first place. You should have known as soon as you read over the file."

Cuddy stayed silent, fiddling with the folders on her desk and searching for something-- _anything_ \--that she could say to throw him off balance.

Before she answered, realization dawned on his face. "You did, didn't you? You knew."

Cuddy's head sagged. "House." The word sounded like a plea in her ears.

"What the hell was this, a _pity_ consult?"

Cuddy kept her eyes trained on the floor, guilt rushing through her, paralyzing her vocal chords.

"I don't need a pity consult!" he shouted, his voice loud and dangerous. He advanced through the room, lacking speed and confidence, one arm outstretched as he walked. When he collided with one of her wooden, straight-backed chairs, she forced herself to resist the urge to help him, to guide him to her desk. Instead she watched as he regained his bearings and stumbled forward. One of his hands swept over her desk, rifling through loose papers to grab a folder. "Is this a new case?"

She looked at the folder in his hand and closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. Her throat worked, attempting to clear itself.

He waved the folder. "What is it?"

She swallowed and whispered, "That's a folder of lunch menus. Brenda left it--"

He threw it back onto the desk, scattering papers to the floor. House's search grew frantic. He clasped another folder and shook it, inches from her face. "This one. What's this one?"

She took the file and opened it as he braced both hands on her desk, head bowed. "Forty-two year old female," she read. "Flu-like symptoms. Shortness of breath. Joint pain."

"Fever?"

"Low grade."

"Joint inflammation or just pain?"

"Both."

"Did anyone draw any blood?"

"This morning."

"How's the erythrocyte sedimentation rate?"

"Elevated."

He paused, whispering under his breath. "It's Rheumatoid arthritis." Before she could argue, he uncovered another file and thrust it at her. "What about this one?"

"Twenty-three year old female. Seizures. Fever. Headaches. Hearing loss. CT revealed no cerebral abscesses. No swelling."

"Did you do an LP?"

"High white blood cell count, increased protein."

"Glucose level?"

"Low."

"Bacterial meningitis."

Cuddy scanned to the bottom of the file. The diagnosis had already been made; the patient was undergoing treatment. She sighed. "You're right. The patient was diagnosed with it two hours ago."

"I know I'm right!" He slammed his open hand against her desk, breathing loud and harsh. "I don't need your fucking pity consults!"

Cuddy softened her voice. "I know. I thought your brain would appreciate the activity. You were bored at home." She knew the excuse was lame the second it left her mouth.

His head shot up. "This isn't about me. This is about _you_. We _both_ know my sick leave expires in two weeks, and we _both_ know that the board won't want to keep me on staff. Did you really think that the board would just _give up_ if you handed them some paperwork with my name on it?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide, as her mouth fell open. "How--how did you--"

"Cameron tattled on you."

She paused for a moment, fuming. "House, if the board knew that you've been diagnosing patients, it would prove that--"

"It wouldn't prove anything! A first-year med student could handle that case! If they want to fire me, fine! As far as I'm concerned, I lost this job when I lost my--" He stopped, unable to finish his sentence. It took a moment until he gathered his composure, then gritted out, "Bury your fucking guilt, Cuddy. _Stop_ trying to save me."

Cuddy stared, mouth agape, as he turned and clumsily traced a path to the door. He groped for the doorknob and jerked open the door, slamming it behind him, the glass panels of the door rattling, echoing in her ears.


	17. Chapter 17

In the days following House's tirade in her office, Wilson had advised her to keep her distance. "Give him a couple days to calm down," he'd said. He had assured her that he would oversee House's care until House purged the worst of his anger and exhausted himself into compliance, or resignation. Today, he had taken House to an appointment with his ophthalmologist. She admitted that she had been relieved. She feared another of House's outbursts, feared he would explicitly blame her and validate all of the guilt already stirring around in the pit of her stomach.

Now, she held the phone to her ear, listening to Wilson relay the latest news. She slouched in the corner of her couch.

"His condition has reached a plateau," he said. "Structurally, his eyes are in good shape. All the surface injuries have healed. No signs of cataracts."

"Any vision improvements?" she asked, knowing the answer before Wilson responded.

"No, but..." He trailed off, sounding hesitant to continue. "Now, Cuddy, don't get your hopes too high, but since his eyes have been healing so well, there's a chance, a _small_ chance, that he'll regain some of his eyesight."

"Fully?"

"There's no way to tell. But even if he regains a little, it'll take some time. You have to remember that it may never happen at all."

She nodded, coursing a hand through her hair and releasing a shaky sigh.

"I scheduled another appointment in two weeks," he said.

"Good," she replied. A lull developed, an awkward pause. Cuddy lifted her feet onto the coffee table, recalling the image of House in his robe, his feet occupying the same spot. She shifted her heel, accidentally bumping the corner of a CD case. She bent forward to retrieve the disc and brought it to her lap, running her fingers over its cover. "So, um," she started, uncertain, "how was he?"

"Quiet," he admitted. "He did a lot of huffing and puffing. Didn't say anything beyond yes or no during the exam. He said a few things on the ride home, mostly derogatory statements about you."

"Oh."

"He also had some choice words for me when I told him I thought giving him that case was a good idea. He called me an idiot. You, however, have the special privilege of being a ‘guilt-ridden idiot'."

She let out a puff of air and dragged her fingernail over the ridges in the plastic case. She had planned to give the disc to House, but she had postponed her plans after House's visit to her office. Setting the case back on the table, she mumbled, "He's right."

"Cuddy, no, he's angry and--"

"He's right." She laughed once. "If I had told him about the board meetings, we might have been able to come up with a plan together. He might have been cooperative, more receptive to the idea."

"House doesn't know how to cooperate."

"I should have told him--"

"No, you shouldn't have. If you did, he would have crashed the board room instead of your office."

She hardly heard Wilson. Her hand rubbed her temple. "He was making progress and now he's shut himself off, erased everything he'd gained--"

"Cuddy," Wilson said softly. "Don't let him get to you. And, whatever you do, don't try to fix this yet. I know you want to, but don't."

"So, what, I should just let him stew?"

"Not stew, just...settle."

Cuddy shut her eyes, conscious of a dull ache floating through her chest. "Okay, all right." The lie tasted sour on her tongue. Plans to visit House had been swimming in her head throughout the afternoon; Wilson hadn't dissuaded her.

Apparently satisfied, Wilson offered her a "Good night" and disconnected. She tossed the phone onto the couch as she slipped on a pair of sneakers. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach as she grabbed some dinner leftovers, shoved the CD in her purse, and dashed out the door.


	18. Chapter 18

No lights illuminated House's apartment when Cuddy stepped inside. Her eyes adjusted quickly, moving from post-twilight darkness to the shadows washing the room. She set her purse at the back of the couch as she peered down at the cushions to find them empty. In the kitchen, the refrigerator door opened, spilling yellow light onto the floor, which she caught in her peripheral vision. She turned to watch the door swing shut as House, wearing a navy graphic t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, sidled to the counter. She squinted in the ambient moonlight and caught the gleam of a knife blade as House lifted it to slice through a sandwich roll.

"House," she said, reaching for the light switch as she passed through the archway.

House ignored her. He laid the knife on the counter and swiped one hand across his pant leg, dusting off bread crumbs.

Cuddy drew a sharp inhale as a dark red smear streaked across the fabric. "House," she repeated, crossing the length of the kitchen to stand beside him. On the counter, the open sandwich roll was already dotted red with blood. Cuddy's heart thundered. She reached for his wrist, wrapping her fingers around it to draw his hand to her face. "House, what are you doing?"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" House jerked his arm away and dipped his hand into a plastic bag of sliced turkey breast.

She took hold of his wrist again. His pulse beat strongly against her fingers.

"Hey, let go!" He jerked again, harder.

"You're bleeding," she said, opening his hand to find an oozing cut on his left ring finger. Not long or deep enough to need stitches, as far as she could tell.

"I am _not_."

Tightening her fingers around his wrist, she lunged for a paper towel. "Yes, you _are_. Come on, House, hold still."

"Stop it," he spat sharply, twisting his wrist within her grip. "Let _go_."

She struggled to maintain a hold on his wrist and rip the towel from the roll. "I need to clean it."

"It's _fine_!" With a violent wrench of his arm, he freed himself and stepped away from her.

"House," she ordered. "You have to let me take care of this."

"No, I don't! There's nothing to take care of." The muscles in his forearm strained when she clasped it. "Cuddy, stop. Don't touch me!" He threw his weight against the counter, jerking her forward. " _Let me go_."

Her chest constricted and, when she spoke, she heard a tremble in her voice. "House, please, I need to--"

"I'm not a _fucking_ invalid!" he shouted menacingly, eyes closed as he tried to pry her fingers from his wrist with his other hand.

A thick rivulet of blood flowed over his palm, his wrist, and she felt its sticky wetness against her skin. She secured her hold with her other hand, coaxing, "I know, House, come on. I just need--"

"Then get _off_ me!" he screamed, spittle flying onto her face as he shoved her away from him, sending her careening backwards into the table in the center of the room.

Cuddy felt her spine bend backwards, the sharp edge of the table painfully cutting into the small of her back. Her hands slapped onto the wooden surface, stinging her skin. She stared at the floor, eyes wide and mouth slack, momentarily stunned. A loud voice made both of their heads turn sharply on their necks.

"House, you forgot your iPod in my car. I thought you'd--Cuddy!" Wilson stopped inside the kitchen, eyes glancing over her body, suddenly alarmed. "What happened to your shirt?"

She dropped her eyes to her chest. Red fingerprints marred the fabric. "His hand."

Before House could hide his hand, Wilson strode across the kitchen and seized House's wrist. As House grunted, trying to yank it away, Wilson twisted his head to look at her, "What happened?"

"He cut himself. He didn't realize--"

"Nothing," House snarled. "Nothing happened."

"Nothing?" Wilson asked. "There's blood smeared all over your hand. You're--"

"I'm trying to make a fucking sandwich!"

"Well, clearly, that's working out well."

"It was going just fine until you two showed up. Let go."

"House, we're trying to help you."

"I don't need your fucking help!" House roared. "God _damn_ it!" He jerked his arm, again and again, breathing hard out of his mouth.

"House, stop it."

"Get the _fuck_ out of my house! I don't need either of you hanging over my fucking shoulder. Get out! Get _out_!" House screamed.

Wilson matched his volume. "Stop it, House! Just _stop_."

" _Get out_!" He tore his arm free, backpedaling into counter, coming down hard on his right leg. "Fuck!" He bent over to grip his thigh, his whole body heaving from exertion.

Cuddy gasped, taking a step forward. Wilson held his arm out to stop her. "Don't get in the middle of this," he whispered and jerked his head toward the living room, urging her to leave. She was hardly aware of her own feet carrying her out of the kitchen as she peered over her shoulder to see House push himself away from the counter and attempt to make a break for the other side of the room. Wilson lunged, catching House in the circle of his arms, pinning House's arms to his body, and forced him against the counter, jarring both of them.

House growled, his body straining with the effort of trying to escape. "Christ, just let me go!"

Wilson locked one hand around his own wrist to secure his hold and pressed his chest against House's back, riding out the struggle. "House, just stop. Settle down. Come on."

Cuddy watched as House thrashed in Wilson's arms. The two of them grunted, snorted wetly like horses. Muscles strained and moved beneath skin in their necks, arms. House's t-shirt and Wilson's dress shirt stuck to their bodies, glued by sweat. Cuddy's own breaths came in painful gasps as they wrestled against each other.

Wilson's voice was gentler now, though his breaths still burst out of him between his words. "You need to relax, House. Relax. Just relax."

Finally, House's head fell, the fight draining from him as a loud sob left him, followed by hiccupped, fractures words. "I--I just wanted to--let me--I don't need this--"

Wilson kept his hold, letting House wear himself out, and whispered, "Just relax."

"I just wanted--I just wanted to make my own--"

House's voice, despite its weakness, ripped through Cuddy's body, through the fibers in her spine, and she shook almost violently with repressed sobs. Wilson had to shout her name twice before her eyes snapped away from House's face and centered, slightly unfocused, on Wilson.

"There are some bandages and gauze in the bathroom," Wilson said. "In the medicine cabinet."

Cuddy's head bobbed with a nod as her gaze drifted back to House, whose body had fallen limp over the counter, finally still. As if pulled by an invisible force, she tore her eyes away and stumbled towards the bathroom, House's voice still ringing in her ears. Standing at the sink, fingers shaking as she reached for the medicine cabinet, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw tear-streaks on her cheeks. She couldn't remember when the tears had started. She scrubbed at her face, grabbed the bandages, and scurried back to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Wilson sat with his back to the cabinets, his arms still around House, who leaned against his chest with his eyes closed and practically wheezing. Cuddy knelt beside them on trembling legs, setting the bandages on the floor with a glass of water and a towel. When she tentatively took House's hand, he didn't fight her. His arm shook as she applied pressure to his wound to stop the bleeding completely, then cleaned it, letting water flow over his finger, catching the run-off with the towel. Her own cheeks felt cold and wet again. Breaths and words caught in her throat as she bandaged his finger and let her hands linger on his, rubbing her thumb across his palm gently, silently.

She set his hand, palm up, on his leg and shifted her feet to stand, but the sudden grip on her wrist nearly sent her off balance and caused her to drop back to her knees. She stared at House's hand around her wrist, feeling suddenly terrified that he would say something scathing--tell her to leave, that he hated her, that he blamed her--and deepen the pain that already cut like barbed wire through her bones. Wilson's forearm tightened around House's torso as he caught the trepidation in her eyes, the flash of fear.

But House's fingers weakly squeezed her wrist and, even weaker, he breathed, "Don't leave." She felt a breath tremble out of her. She had never recalled hearing his voice sound so small, so broken. "Cuddy."

"It's okay," she whispered and curled her fingers around his wrist, grasping it loosely, letting her fingers stroke his skin. Her other arm fell across his stomach, her hand moving over his ribs, trying to soothe him. "It's okay."

House rolled his head against Wilson's chest, squeezing his eyes shut as his free hand rose to Wilson's forearm and held it against his chest. Cuddy met Wilson's eyes. Both of them sighed quietly and, together, looked down at House.

The three of them remained there, sitting on the cold tiles, an interlocked tangle of arms, until House's breathing calmed, the tension finally leaving him during the dark hours before the dawn.


	19. Chapter 19

Saturday morning passed without incident. Wilson made the three of them breakfast--French toast and scrambled eggs--before he left. He had planned to drop off his dry cleaning and make some other errand runs. He had looked hesitant to leave, but Cuddy assured him she would stay until House seemed all right. House had been quiet, and nobody had spoken of what happened the previous evening.

As she padded out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower and wearing one of House's t-shirts with her pants from the day before, rain pattered softly against the windows. She stood in the living room, rubbing a towel over her hair, and noticed the apartment door stood open. Swallowing her alarm, she scooped up her keys from the end table and strode out of the apartment. She threw open the exterior door and nearly fell over House, who sat on the steps of the building, his head bowed against the rain, his hair flattened on his head.

She hovered just inside the building, looking down at him. "You have a perfectly good shower in your apartment, you know."

"And if I wanted to get clean, I'd be there."

"You're not exactly the type to be one with nature." She leaned her shoulder against the door frame. "I don't care how many times Wilson says you're a Wicca. Come inside."

He sighed. "I like it. The rain, I like it."

Cuddy heard the wet squish of his sneakers when he shifted his feet. She felt the urge to take him inside, towel him dry, set him in front of a lively fire, and let the warmth permeate his bones. After last night, however, she hesitated to force anything upon him; if House found solace sitting in a downpour, then so be it. She let her eyes linger on him as he rubbed the saturated sleeve of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger, then held his hand out, silently catching raindrops. Water cascaded down his face, falling from the tip of his nose, his chin; he made no effort to wipe it away.

Just above the noise of the rain, House addressed the sidewalk, "I thought I saw something."

It took a moment to process the words. "You--you saw something?" she stuttered. "When?"

"I _thought_ I saw something. Today. A lightning flash, before the thunderstorm passed."

A powerful flutter of hope--joy--made her heart leap. She bit her lip, futilely trying to repress a smile, and pushed off of the doorframe to crouch behind him. "House, if you saw something, if you _think_ you saw something, anything at all, it might mean that your vision loss isn't permanent."

House snorted. "Yeah, and for the last eight years Wilson's been telling me the nerves in my leg could regenerate," he said dryly.

"You should schedule another appointment with the ophthalmologist. He might be able to determine if your sight is returning. He might be able to--"

"It was nothing," House declared, the tone of his voice demanding that she drop the issue. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I imagined it."

She stood, pressing her lips together to smother a reply. She tapped her toe on the carpet and, allowing a quiet minute to pass uninterrupted, bent forward to place a hand on his wet shoulder. "House." When turned his head, indicating he had heard her, she said, "I want to give you something."

"Is it part of my severance package?"

"Just get in the damn house."

He sighed, stood, and let her guide him inside. After a change of clothes, he joined her on the couch, surprised when she put a pair of headphones over his ears.

"I swear," he warned her, "if this is one of those new age 'sounds of the rainforest' CDs, I'm kicking you out."

She grinned, pressed ‘play' on the stereo remote, and heard faint, muted notes leaking from the headphones. House's head tilted to the side and the deep creases in his forehead disappeared as he inhaled deeply, his eyelids fluttering closed. She heard no complaints, felt no resistance, when she placed her hands on his shoulders and urged him to lie on his back, situating his head in her lap.

While music still sounded in his headphones, he started to talk without preamble, the words low and lazy. "Tatum was blinded by cataracts, you know. He was still an infant when it happened." Cuddy suspected that he didn't expect a reply, so she remained silent. "He was playing by ear by the time he was three. Learned _duets_ by the time he was six." He wrapped the headphone cable around a finger. "Of course, he wasn't aware those pieces were duets." He paused to listen, then snorted a laugh. "This guy was so fast. _Per_ fect every damn time."

She strained to hear the sounds coming from the headphones. Recognizing the tune of "Someone to Watch Over Me", its melody mixed with lightning-fast arpeggios and scales, she gazed into House's face. Her fingers stroked his hair, still damp with rainwater, and her lips parted with a smile as he leaned into her touch. Cuddy listened as he continued to speak, much of the musical jargon lost on her, but it didn't matter. Focused on his face, she watched his eyebrows rise and fall with the rhythm, suddenly taken with affection for him, and leaned down to drop a feather-light kiss on his forehead. As she pulled away, his eyes blinked open and, for a moment, one breathtaking moment, House seemed to meet her gaze, steady and direct, as a grin pulled at his mouth. Seconds later, he closed his eyes, and the moment was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

Tuesday morning, Cuddy's shoe slid off the gas pedal, forcing her to regain her footing as she peeled out of her parking space along the curb. She sped to the stop sign at the end of the street, the white brick exterior of House's apartment building blurring in her rearview mirror. Her foot barely tapped the brake as the car slowed and her hand dove into her bag to find her cell phone. Glancing left, then right, she floored the pedal to barrel through the intersection, heading for the hospital as her fingers dialed Wilson's office number. Her heart galloped, its beat loud in her ear, nearly overpowering the ring on the other end of her phone line.

Wilson picked up on the fourth ring, greeting her cheerily. "Good morning, Cuddy."

"Where's House?"

"Oh, well, we were playing a game of hide-and-seek, but I think he ditched me. Not the best seeker."

Cuddy's tone was vicious. "This is no time for jokes. Do you know where he is or not?"

"No idea," he said casually. "I haven't seen him since Saturday morning. I'm assuming you're calling me because you already checked his apartment."

"Of course I checked his apartment. He wasn't there. I thought you might know--"

"Are you on your way here?"

"I'm a few minutes out." Panic sent her heart racing as fast as her wheels. "God, Wilson, if he's _out_ there, trying to _prove_ something..."

"Cuddy, take a deep breath. We'll figure something out when you get here."

Cuddy pulled the phone from her ear to stare at it for a moment. _Too calm, he sounded far too calm._ "Wilson, what's _wrong_ with you? We don't have time to just sit around and wait for him to turn up. He could be--"

"We won't be able to do anything if either of us is consumed with worry. Keep it together and we'll talk when you get here."

She gritted her teeth. "I'm pulling into the lot. Check the ER records just in case something happened to him."

"Cuddy, don't you think that's--"

"Just do it." She hung up, jabbing at the keypad, and tossed her phone into her purse.

Tires squealing, she swung the car, crooked, into the parking space and shifted it into ‘park' before she even came to a complete stop, making the car lurch forward. She threw her hands out to keep from crashing into the steering wheel and struck the horn by accident. She gasped at the sound, flustered, pressing one hand to her chest, and closed her eyes for a moment before clutching her purse and hurrying for the entrance.

She blew past the front desk, ignoring a smiling nurse that extended a tiny stack of pink notes for her. Certain she was on the verge of an anxiety attack, she blustered into her office to deposit her purse and caught sight of the memo in her inbox--this afternoon's agenda for the board meeting, bearing House's name in the first item line. As her eyes passed over his name, about to turn and track down Wilson, a voice boomed from behind her.

"You're late."

She spun sharply, her heels digging into the carpet, as a tiny gasp escaped her. Her wide eyes fell on House, who stretched out across the sofa, eyes downcast but a smirk on his face. Cuddy felt as though her internal organs traded places, skipping around beneath her skin; she wasn't sure if she should feel relief, joy, or _seething_ anger.

"Wow, you must be desperate, wearing that _almost_ see-through black number. Board meeting today?"

Cuddy's jaw dropped, her mouth falling wide open. She suddenly noticed that House's eyes, still cast toward the floor, were blinking behind a pair of glasses. "House, are you screwing with me?"

He huffed a laugh. "Screwing _with_ you?" His eyes settled on the opposite wall.

"Can you see?"

House swung his legs to the floor and raised his chin to meet her eyes directly and hold her gaze, forcing her to inhale almost violently. As he stood, his smirk morphed into a smile. "I could have an amazing telepathic connection with that blouse, for all you know."

Cuddy hardly heard him. She closed the distance that separated them and looked into his face, maintaining eye contact. "You can _see_?" Her tone was positively joyous, and she decided that he could mock her all he wanted; she couldn't repress the happiness threatening to burst out of every tiny, overjoyed orifice in her body.

He looked down at the floor and shrugged, shuffling his foot on the carpet. "Not perfectly. The damn chemicals messed with the focus, so I have to wear these"--He nudged the frames on his face.--"all the time."

Her smile nearly stretched off her face. "When did you...?"

"Sunday." He shook his head. "I thought I was dreaming that I was seeing underwater."

"That's...wonderful, House." She wanted to lift his face, but she kept herself from reaching out.

"Although, I admit, it was tough sneaking into the hospital yesterday."

She would have felt vaguely insulted if her happiness wasn't _swallowing_ her. "You could have called me. I would have picked you up on my--"

"I didn't want you to know." After he spoke, he looked at her, his head still tipped slightly downward.

She drew a deep breath and nodded slowly in understanding. He'd wanted to be sure.

"So I'm assuming that, since you're here, telling me this, you're...sure about all of this."

He nodded, once, and didn't elaborate.

She bit her lip, still smiling. Finally, giving in to the urge, she touched his arm, squeezing it gently before dragging her hand to his wrist before letting it fall away. He watched her hand trace its path, then looked at her as she said, "Welcome back."

He swallowed, shaking his head, and pointed at her--bullseye. "Oh, you are a sap. Give it a few days and I guarantee that weepy sentimentality will disappear and you'll be hunting me down to screech at me like an Amazon woman." He spun around and headed for the door. "Not that I mind." He playfully growled at her over his shoulder as he walked out of her office and into the clinic, joining Wilson, who waited near the nurse's station.

House swiped a pair of lollipops from the jar on the counter and, with an underhanded toss, lobbed Wilson the green one. As House departed from view, heading for the lobby, Cuddy watched as Wilson turned, held up his lollipop in a salute, and offered her a smile.


End file.
